


The Lost Fics

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, sherlolly goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 23,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: A collection of one-shots and ficlets originally posted on Tumblr, which were thereafter lost... or would have been, if I hadn't tagged them in order to save them. Thank goodness!  These range from K to T, are not connected, and are in no particular order.  Posted as Completed, but I will add to it if and when I post other stuff on Tumblr.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 76
Kudos: 140





	1. Surprises and Sweet Things

**Author's Note:**

> From a long-forgotten drabble challenge, this fic inspired by the sentence, “Oh, did I scare you, big boy?” Obviously much longer than a drabble. I’ve never been very good at keeping my fics that short. Anyway, happy reading!

Molly bit her lips to stifle a laugh at the sight that greeted her. Twenty minutes earlier, she’d received a text from Sherlock, reading simply, _HELP ME_ , with the address to the café in which she now stood. Admittedly, she’d felt a surge of panic, not sure what she might find. Oddly enough, this never made the list of possibilities.

Sherlock Holmes, world-renowned consulting detective, sat at a table with four very pretty, _very_ enthusiastic young women, all likely in their early twenties. Each woman leaned toward him flirtatiously, though they conversed with one another more than they did with him. Meanwhile Sherlock, stiff as a plank and clearly as comfortable as if he were walking one, glanced feverishly about the place, searching for any means of escape. His gaze landed on Molly and instantly brightened with desperate hope. A moment later, her phone buzzed with another message:

_THANK GOD. GET ME OUT OF HERE._

Molly giggled softly to herself as she typed her reply.

_HOW DO YOU WANT ME TO GO ABOUT THIS?_

She watched as he pulled out his phone again, typed furiously, and soon his next message reached her.

_ANYTHING. IT DOESN’T MATTER. JUST GET. ME. OUT._

A quiet snort escaped with the laugh accompanying this text, and when she met his eyes again, she found him scowling at her. Without the slightest hint of contrition, she shrugged one shoulder, then sent one final response.

_JUST FOLLOW MY LEAD THEN._

Molly stowed her phone in her handbag, bracing herself for the challenge presented to her. Not that it would be too great a challenge. She knew what it was like to be a twenty-something young woman. So many new opportunities, so much to explore and enjoy. And so many _men!_ She’d had her share of experiences, and she knew just how to save the discomfited detective. The question that remained, however, was just how well he’d play along.

By now, Sherlock had read her latest text, and gave her a covert nod before returning his gaze to the center of the table. None of the girls seemed to notice, and Molly wondered if they were really interested in him, or just wanted to _look_ interested. Regardless, she approached their table quickly, with a bright smile on her face. She came within earshot in time to hear one of them ask Sherlock’s opinion on something in their conversation, but he never had the chance to reply. The next moment, Molly’s hands playfully covered his eyes, and she breathed into his ear, “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock stiffened noticeably, sucking in a breath. “I… I, er…” he stammered

Molly giggled and lowered her hands to his shoulders, leaning to one side to look at him. “Did I scare you, big boy?”

He blinked. “No, just… surprised me.”

“That _was_ the idea,” she beamed, then leaned in and planted a lingering kiss on his lips. She refused to let herself dwell on just how soft his lips were, or the smell of his aftershave, or the fact that she’d just wasted her first kiss with the love of her life on getting him away from a group of hormonal uni students. Molly prided herself on her ability to focus on any situation, and by God, she would use that talent now.

With surprising ease, she pulled away and gave him another dazzling smile. To her secret satisfaction, she spotted the faint blush in his cheeks and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She lifted an eyebrow, and in a split second, Sherlock’s expression shifted into something she could only describe as _cheeky_.

“You know how I hate surprises,” he teased in a low voice.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you.”

He smirked, his eyes darkening. “You certainly will.”

_Christ, he’s good at this_. Molly tapped him on the nose, then stood straight to meet the eyes of four dumbstruck twenty-year-olds. “Who are your friends?” she asked jovially, careful not to let even the smallest bit of jealousy slip into her tone. Sherlock shot her a look of barely-concealed horror. She got the feeling he’d forgotten at least one of their names, though that might actually help with this scenario. Still, she waited to see how much his brilliant mind had retained.

“Jillian… Hanna… Edith, and… Clara,” he recited.

“Tara,” the blonde beside him corrected with a scowl. Molly winced inwardly. Poor girl.

“Right,” he smiled. “Sorry. Ladies, this is my Molly.”

She ignored the shiver that trickled down her spine at hearing him refer to her as _his Molly_. “Lovely to meet you all. Thanks for keeping Sherlock company, but I’m afraid I have to pull him away. Meeting the parents for lunch.” She bit her lip in feigned anxiety and held up her hands, showing two sets of crossed fingers. “Wish me luck, girls!”

Not one of them responded.

“Well, thank you for the… company,” Sherlock nodded, rising to his feet and sliding an arm around her waist. “Must dash. Good afternoon.”

They maintained the couple façade as they left the café, keeping a tight hold on it (and each other) until they rounded the corner. At that point, the laughter Molly had been suppressing since seeing him came bubbling up. She stopped walking to lean against a nearby wall, giggling and tearing up.

“Oh, yes, it’s very funny,” Sherlock grumbled.

“You sh-should have seen y-your f-face!” she cackled.

He huffed a sigh. “When you’re quite finished.”

Molly laughed until she was clutching at her sides, nearly gasping for air. She sighed and leaned her back against the wall, smiling up at him. Her eyes still sparkled with mirth. She looked stunning.

Sherlock recalled the sudden kiss in the café, and considered his reaction to said kiss. He’d enjoyed it… _really_ enjoyed it. In fact, he’d been a bit disappointed when it ended. For those few moments, while their lips touched, the world was still. Silent. Peaceful, even. He forgot the reason he’d asked for Molly’s help, forgot the silly young women holding him hostage with their blatant flirtations. His mind, normally a debilitating cyclone of stray deductions when not focused on a case, calmed to a state of almost liquidity. He was floating, as ridiculous as that sounded. Floating… but also falling.

“Sherlock?”

He snapped back to full attention, meeting Molly’s concerned gaze. “Forgive me. I was… lost in thought.”

Her concern did not diminish. “You seemed awfully focused for being ‘lost in thought.’ What were you thinking about?”

Sherlock paused, weighing his words carefully. In the end, though, the simplest response seemed best. “I was thinking about you, actually.”

“Me?” she echoed, her doe eyes widening almost comically.

He smiled at her. “Specifically, you _kissing_ me. Very effective ploy, by the way. Good you thought of it.”

Her face colored, and his smile grew in response. “Yeah, well…” She trailed off, looking down at her toes. “Sorry I had to resort to that.”

“Are you?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

Molly frowned at him. “Aren’t _you?_ ”

Sherlock crossed the short distance between them, his eyes never leaving hers. “No,” he answered in a low voice. “In fact…” he leaned an open palm against the wall just to the side of her head. “I find myself wishing you would do it again.”

She drew a trembling breath, her eyes lingering on his lips. He followed suit, admiring her sweet, lovely mouth. A dusty memory surfaced, one of himself making a flippant remark about the size of her lips. He felt a spasm of guilt as other unfortunate comments came to mind. It seemed he had much to atone for. He’d do it, gladly… if she would let him.

“You’re lost in thought again,” she observed.

He met her eyes, finding them dark with a desire, yet also alight with excitement. “Yes, well. You do tend to scatter my thoughts.”

A delighted smile curved her lips, and she pulled the bottom lip between her teeth. That act was his undoing. He was scarcely aware of his actions as he took her face in both hands and kissed her soundly. Despite the nature in which it had started, this kiss had the same effect on his mind as their first. The rest of the world faded, dulled, until the only thing he could process was _Molly_. Her warm, inviting lips. Her radiant smile. Her soft, breathy sighs. He could not have been more wrong that day; her mouth was _not_ too small. It was perfect.

“We should probably talk about this,” she whispered against his lips.

“Yes,” he heard himself reply, even as he sought another kiss. “Talk.”

“Before we get…” his lips cut her off, “…too carried away.”

With a groan, Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself away from her. She looked up at him through dark lashes, a lovely blush lingering in her cheeks. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to refrain from ravishing her then and there. But she deserved better than that.

Clearing his throat, he nodded and took a step back. “You’re right. We do need to talk. Yours or mine?”

Molly smiled at the irony of his question, typically an invitation to do anything _but_ talk. “Yours is closer.”

They walked in silence, a thick tension surrounding them. As they walked the few short blocks to Baker Street, Molly took the time to process what was happening. She had just been snogged by Sherlock Holmes. Very _thoroughly_ snogged. And now they were going to talk. Trust him to do things out of order. Not that she minded, especially if it meant snogging him.

At last, they reached 221B, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat, stopping them halfway up the stairs.

“Yoo-hoo!” she grinned. “Hello, Molly dear! Lovely to see you!”

“You as well, Mrs. Hudson,” she smiled.

“Got some new experiments for Sherlock then?” the landlady guessed.

“Of a sort,” Sherlock cut in, then pressed an insistent hand to the small of her back. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but we really must get to it. Don’t worry about tea, that’ll only slow us down.” Molly snorted, and he shot her a glare.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrowed, but she shrugged affably. “Well, let me know if you change your mind, though. I’ve got some chocolates from Switzerland,” she announced excitedly. “Mrs. Turner’s just come back from holiday there, and the dear brought bags full of the stuff! It’s a bit sweet for my taste, but you might like it, Sherlock. You’ve always loved sweet things.”

This elicited another snort from Molly, and another glare in her direction. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m sure we’ll manage. Ta!” he called, already half-shoving Molly up the stairs.

Upon reaching the sitting room, Sherlock closed the door and locked it. He then faced Molly, his eyes filled with unmistakable hunger, and a hint of boyish mischief. She was sure she’d never seen anything so sexy. They stared at one another in silence for several moments, each waiting for the other to speak first. Meanwhile, the tension between them thickened, and the temperature in the room seemed to climb.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. “You said we should talk,” he prompted.

“Right,” she nodded. “Talk.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, an overly-innocent expression on his face, while his eyes danced with humor and anticipation. She nearly lost all sense when he looked at her like that. Forcing her eyes away, Molly was able to remind herself _why_ she’d wanted to talk things through.

“I’m sure you know this about me already,” she began, “but I don’t do flings. When I’m with someone, I’m _with_ them. Exclusivity, commitment… that’s what I want. But I know that’s not something _you_ have ever wanted.”

She paused for a moment, gathering strength to meet his eyes. Gone was the playfulness, replaced by an alert intensity. Good. She had his full attention.

“If you still don’t want that, please tell me now. As much as I would like to continue… what we were doing earlier,” she blushed, “I can’t… I won’t… without some form of commitment attached. I’m sorry, that’s quite an ultimatum to be throwing at you, but I’m afraid that if I don’t stand my ground now, it’ll fall out from under me. So… I suppose what I’m saying is… it’s all or nothing, Sherlock.”

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t respond right away. Molly waited patiently, knowing he would need to think this through. In time, he took a slow, deep breath, and walked toward her. She craned her neck as he drew near, fighting her natural tendency toward timidity, and maintained eye contact with him. He stopped less than a foot away, his face unreadable.

“Molly Hooper,” he murmured, “you deserve the world.”

She swallowed hard, bracing herself for the inevitable. _But I can’t give it to you_ , he would say, then he would kiss her cheek, smile at her, and—

“And I’ll do everything in my power to give it to you.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have—wait, what?”

He smiled. “I am, as they say, _all in_.”

Molly stared for the space of three erratic heartbeats, before throwing herself at him and kissing him enthusiastically. He matched her easily, their mouths engaging in a dance that was fast becoming familiar… and would become even more so. His arms enveloped her and he lifted her off her feet, providing a much better angle for the kiss. Molly took the opportunity to wrap her legs around his waist, while her fingers carded through his silky curls.

When a deep, rumbling laugh reached her ears, she pulled back to look at him. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

Sherlock met her eyes with that same boyish look. “Mrs. Hudson was right about one thing,” he grinned, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I do love sweet things. And you, Molly, may just be the sweetest of all.”


	2. Rosie of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Molly Hooper Appreciation week, some years ago (really don’t remember when). Day 1 – A Ros(i)e By Any Other Name.

Molly raised her head as she heard the door to her spare bedroom creak open. Its occupant, a three-year-old Rosie Watson, came ambling in, rubbing her eyes and dragging her blanket behind her. Molly immediately set aside the book she’d been reading, and leaned her forearms on her thighs. “You’re meant to be asleep, young lady,” she gently admonished.

The little girl’s bottom lip quivered. “I had a bad dream.”

Molly’s heart melted, and she sat up straight, opening her arms in invitation. Rosie scrambled into her lap, latching her arms around her neck. Molly hugged her close, stroking her dusty blonde curls and rocking from side to side. “Shh, it’s alright, love. It was only a dream.”

Rosie sniffled. “But it was _really_ bad.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

She sat back on her haunches and launched into a retelling of her dream. Molly had to force back tears of her own as she listened to her goddaughter’s fears of being taken away from her loved ones… of her father abandoning her. John, she knew, would never in a million years do such at thing. Still, as he was currently on his second honeymoon, Molly could see how Rosie might feel like she’d been left behind.

“I miss him,” she wailed. “I wish he hadn’t married Kathryn.”

Molly gave a sad, sympathetic smile. “Don’t you like Kathryn?”

Rosie shrugged. “She’s nice, and she makes yummy food. Daddy’s food isn’t always very good. But… what if he never comes back?”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Molly assured her, pulling her in for another snuggle. “He’d never leave his favorite girl like that. He’d miss you too much.”

She was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “Do you think he misses her?”

Molly frowned. “Who, sweetheart?”

“Mummy.”

A lump formed in Molly’s throat, and she choked back more tears. “Oh, _yes_. I know he still misses her terribly.”

“Then how can he marry somebody else?”

Sighing quietly, she searched for a way to make the young girl understand. “You can love more than one person, Rosie. Sometimes, the first person you loved leaves, or is taken from you. It hurts an awful lot, and you feel like no one else can ever make you feel the same way. And in some ways, that’s true. But they can make you happy in different ways, and you love them, too. I think that’s how your daddy feels about Kathryn. Your mum was _so_ special, and no one can ever take her place. But Kathryn is special, too.”

The seconds ticked by as Rosie processed this information. She was so still, Molly wondered if she’d drifted off to sleep. Just as she was about to shift the little girl in her arms and check, she spoke again. “He never talks about Mummy,” she whispered. “I think it makes him too sad.”

Molly nodded. “That’s possible.”

Rosie leaned back again. “Can you tell me about her, Auntie Molly?”

For a passing moment, she considered declining. Molly’s grief was nothing when compared to John’s, but she, too, felt the loss of Mary Watson. She had been a wonderful friend, and they had shared so much in the short time they had. In the end, it was this fact that prompted her to nod her head a second time.

Molly told Rosie about the first time she’d met Mary. It was the anniversary of Sherlock’s “death,” and she and John had just begun dating. Within minutes, the two women were giggling together like teenagers, while John watched from the sidelines, both amused and _be_ mused. She shared stories of her mother’s kindness, vivacity, and strength. She hesitated only briefly before telling her of the way she had sacrificed herself for Sherlock. Silent tears streamed down her face as she did, having no power to keep them back any longer.

“Wow,” Rosie breathed. “Mummy was _really_ brave.”

“Yes, she was.”

They both turned at the sound of a familiar male voice, and found John standing in the doorway, smiling sadly. Rosie practically flew into her father’s arms, and he scooped her up into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Your mother,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, “was an absolute treasure. And you are so much like her.”

Molly beamed as he sat beside her on the sofa, Rosie still in his arms. He grinned and tapped the tip of his daughter’s nose. “Did you have a good time with Auntie Molly?”

Rosie nodded exuberantly. “Auntie Molly’s the bestest! She’s nice and sings me songs and tells me stories.”

John shot Molly a grateful smile, and the two shared a small, poignant moment, before he turned back to Rosie. “Well, when we get back home, I’ll have to tell you some more stories… about your mum. Would you like that?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” the little girl cried, throwing her arms around him again. John thanked Molly as they each gathered up her things, carrying them out to the cab waiting outside. Kathryn stood on the kerb, waiting for her husband and stepdaughter with a smile. Molly liked Kathryn, and was grateful—for John and Rosie’s sake—that he had found someone so kind and patient.

The Watsons piled into the cab, calling out their goodbyes, and Molly waved as they drove off into the fading, pinkish light of dusk. Memories of Mary still floated at the forefront of her mind, and she sniffed back a fresh wave of tears. John was right; Mary had been a treasure. And Rosie was just like her.


	3. Silent Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for mychakk’s Sherlolly hugfest. Really wish I could remember the dates on some of these, but oh well. C’est la vie, non?

Sherlock started out of his mind palace at the sound of a car door slamming shut just outside. He was instantly on high alert, listening carefully. A few moments later, the front door opened and closed, rather forcefully, then he heard the heavy, trudging footfalls ascending the stairs. Molly was home, and from the sounds of things, she wasn’t terribly happy.

As the footsteps grew louder and nearer, Sherlock racked his brain for any possible missteps on his part. When he found none, he resigned himself to waiting until she entered the flat to find out.

The door soon opened, revealing a weary-looking Molly. Sherlock quickly took stock of her appearance: hair slightly disheveled, eyes and nose rimmed with red, and a grimace turning down the corners of her mouth. Well… she didn’t appear to be angry with him. In fact, the closest word he could use to describe how she looked was… _broken_.

In the space of two heartbeats, he was on his feet and crossing the room. He gathered her into his arms and pressed her to his chest. She crumbled against him without protest, her breath coming in erratic bursts and sobs. Sherlock said nothing as he held and soothed her. It wasn’t the first time she had come home in such a state. The last time, she’d been forced to do a post-mortem on a two-year-old girl. Today had likely been a similar occurrence. And just as he had before, he remained a silent solace for her.

Once she seemed to have calmed down, Sherlock pulled back to look her in the eye. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless question, and she replied with a slight shake of the head. Not quite ready to talk, then. Nodding his understanding, he led her to the sofa, and they assumed a now-familiar position. Sherlock sat with his back against the armrest, one leg stretched out across the sofa. Molly settled in with her back against his chest, and his arms encircled her from behind. Her fingers traced the veins in his hands, leaving a pleasant trail of tingles in their wake.

They remained cocooned together on the sofa, drinking in the comfort of one another’s presence, never saying a word. There was no need. And before long, the pair had drifted off to sleep, having all but forgotten that anything unpleasant had happened.


	4. Saying Thank You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018. Day 2 (Canon) – The Reichenbach Fall.

When Molly walked into her flat, he was preparing to leave. His hair was covered by an unkempt, ginger wig, and he’d traded his signature Belstaff for a more conservative look. He didn’t pause to acknowledge her, just kept right on packing the few things he’d stashed here prior to this horrifying day into a large knapsack. Molly took advantage of his distraction, and watched him. Memorized him…the planes of his face… the curve of his perfect lips… the stormy blue-green of his keen eyes…

Eyes that had settled, finally, on her.

He remained still, watching her as she watched him. She swallowed the temptation to beg him not to leave—there was really no point. He _had_ to leave.

“How long?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he replied, matching her volume. “Might be a few months… or a few years. No way to know for sure.”

She nodded absently; she hadn’t really expected an answer, anyway. Swallowing again, this time against the wave of emotion threatening to cripple her, she asked, “You _will_ come back, though… won’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, then released a long breath. “If I’m still… yes,” he finished lamely.

Molly knew the rest of the sentence, but refused to finish it for him. He _would_ come back… he had to…

The sound of a mobile pinging distracted them both. Sherlock exhaled again, not bothering to check the text he’d just received. He stepped toward her, much as he had the night before, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Someday,” he murmured, “I’ll thank you properly. Until then… this will have to do.”

Without warning, he bent his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Molly’s eyes fluttered closed, allowing her other senses to sharpen. The feel of his lips against her skin; the scent of clean, crisp linen and some sort of cologne; the sound of her heart battering against her ribs, drowning out all else. All too soon, he severed the contact and backed away to meet her eyes again. If she didn’t know him better—if she trusted her senses more—she might have believed his pupils had dilated.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

And without further delay, he stepped out of her flat, and out of her life, for God only knew how long. Molly lifted a hand to touch the place where his lips had branded her, and was surprised to find it wet with tears. Then her grief consumed her, and she sank to the floor, wondering when, if ever, she would see Sherlock Holmes again.


	5. A Growing Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018. Day 4 (Non-Canon) – Early Marriage/Parent!lock (little kids). For the life of me, I couldn't figure out a better title for this. Oh, well. Hooray for another feels trip!

A loud wail from the monitor on his bedside table yanked Sherlock into consciousness, and he fought a sigh. _Why does she always cry on the nights I actually want to sleep?_ For a moment, he considered waiting to see if she would lull herself back to sleep. The decision was made for him when a second, nearly identical wail joined the first.

He felt Molly stir beside him, and she released the sigh he had suppressed. “Which one?”

“Both,” he whispered. “You take Will, I’ll get Scarlett.”

They slid out of bed and trudged upstairs to the nursery. Molly ambled over to the bassinet closest to the door, while Sherlock headed for the other side of the room, where their daughter lay screaming. He scooped her gently into his arms and made soft shushing sounds, to no avail. He moved on to humming a violin piece by Beethoven, rocking her in time with the melody, which proved much more effective.

As her cries turned to soft whimpers, Sherlock smiled at his beautiful baby girl. She had grown so much in a short amount of time—typical for infants, but fascinating nonetheless. She was already crawling, and moved with surprising speed, much to the chagrin of her mother. Soon, she would be climbing up the furniture, then she’d start walking, and all hell would break loose.

Sherlock couldn’t wait.

The room grew quiet as each child drifted back into what was sure to be a short-lived slumber. Molly exhaled slowly, and Sherlock met her eyes with a grin. She matched his expression, even as she asked in a tired voice, “You sure you want another one?”

His grin only grew. “Bit late for that, darling.”

She sighed happily, one hand slipping from its hold on little Will and moving to the gentle swell of her belly. She’d only just begun to show, and Sherlock thought it was the most beautiful she had ever been. Of course, he’d thought the same thing on their wedding day, and while she was carrying the twins, and the thought would surely repeat itself with every child. (When he voiced this to her in the past, she’d tried very hard to seem wary about the mention of future pregnancies, but there was no hiding the delight in her eyes.) This third baby was a surprise, but by no means an unwelcome one.

“We’re not all going to fit here at Baker Street,” she commented, pulling him from his thoughts.

He shrugged. “Then we’ll move.”

Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

Another shrug. “I’ll keep 221B as an office and laboratory, and we’ll find another place to live. Close by, preferably, but wherever we go, as long as we’re all together, the distance won’t matter.”

This time two years ago, he might have been alarmed by the tears that suddenly rolled down his wife’s face, glistening in the muted light from the city outside. Her pregnancy made her emotional, more so than usual, and Sherlock had learned that tears did not necessarily mean sadness. They could be happy, too. And judging by the smile that nearly split her face in two, this was one of those times.

“God, I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered.

He chuckled softly as he crossed the room and bent his head to kiss her soundly. “I can assure you,” he murmured against her lips, “the feeling is most certainly mutual.”


	6. Domestic Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018. Day 5 (Non-Canon) – Domestic Sherlolly. I actually remember this one! Was it really that long ago? Man, I feel old… Anyway, say hello to the fluffiest fluff I have ever fluffed!

“Don’t get used to this,” Molly reprimanded, though the smile she tried (and failed) to smother, and her position in his arms with her forehead against his, betrayed her true feelings. “I said just this once, and I mean it.”

“Of course, he nodded seriously, then smirked. “But then again, you said that last time.”

She glared at him. “I could still go…” she trailed off, and moved as if to leave his embrace.

Sherlock tightened his hold, pulling her flush against him. In a low, rumbling voice he knew she loved, he murmured against her jaw, “Don’t you dare.”

Molly shivered a bit at the sensation and sighed. “You know, you can’t just charm me into staying home every time you’re bored. I would like to keep my job, and I know _you_ would like me to keep it as well.”

“You have a point there,” he conceded. “Alright, it won’t happen again.” Molly could almost see his eyes shifting and lips pursing in feigned consideration, before he quickly amended, “Except at the utmost need.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, don’t think you’re fooling anyone. Your definition of ‘utmost need’ differs from one day to the next.”

“Ah, but that’s what makes this so exciting,” he purred, moving his lips down the column of her throat as he spoke. He grinned with satisfaction when her breath hitched and her hands gripped his shoulders. He gently kissed his way back up, pausing just over her lips. “Never quite knowing what to expect.”

She tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “No argument there,” she whispered.

They savored the taste of one another, each familiar with the flavor, but never able to get enough. Molly smiled into his kiss, inwardly laughing in giddy delight. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, she’d planned ahead and spoken to Mike the night before, knowing he was at his neediest right after a case. But she would never tell him that. Not when he kissed her like this, so urgent and demanding and full of want. Molly would take a week-long holiday if it meant she could be kissed like this every day.

Perhaps she would give Mike a call…


	7. Uncharted Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @sssssssim from Tumblr asked: “Sherlolly + ‘water.’ Let’s see what… floats your boat. B-)” Ohhh, the pun! That put a smile on my face. Hope my response does the same for you!

Sherlock blinked twice slowly, squeezing his eyes tightly with the second, and holding them closed a moment. When he opened them again, and the sight before him had not changed, his jaw fell slack. This was no drunken hallucination—he’d made a point to avoid the rum this evening, even as his crew reveled and imbibed freely. He could also rule out the possibility of this being a dream; if it were, he would not feel the chill of the breeze through his hair, nor the water still clinging to his skin and weighing down his clothes. Yet he felt each with perfect clarity… as clearly as he saw the figure seated on a rock just a few metres from himself.

She was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. A wave of chestnut hair, full and lush, cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. Her creamy skin appeared to glow in the moonlight. And then there was the matter of her _tail_ …

Though he’d often heard tell of the “sirens” that swam the high seas, he’d always dismissed the stories as fantastical nonsense. Nothing but poor sailors looking for an excuse for their own stupidity. But here before him sat living proof of their existence. Sherlock followed the lines and curves of her shimmering opalescent scales, tapering at the end, before fanning out into a wide, webbed fin, which fluttered every so often, reminding him of someone tapping their toes. Dragging his eyes upward again, he lingered at her slender waist, where scales and skin blended together. He swallowed thickly as his gaze passed over her breasts, covered only by thick locks of her hair, leaving very little to the imagination.

At last, his eyes met hers, wide and wondering, a rich, dark brown that excited him, even as it calmed him. Her small, soft lips parted at his appraisal of them, and he watched her chest rise and fall with a heavy breath.

“Why are you here?” he asked softly.

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Her gaze never faltered from his, leaving him at once both filled to the brim, yet thirsty for more.

“We’re not far from port,” he tried again. “This particular stretch of the shore is unpopular, but quite easily accessible. Anyone might happen upon you, and I cannot guarantee they would be as congenial as myself.”

She merely blinked in response.

Sherlock huffed softly in brief irritation. “Very well. If you won’t answer me, I’ll leave you to your solitude.” With no small effort, he turned on his heel and made to walk back to the _Hudson_.

“You’re different.”

Her voice, barely above a whisper, gentler than a caress, stopped him in his tracks. He inhaled deeply before facing her again. She continued to stare, motionless, and had he not already ascertained his own sobriety, he might have questioned whether or not he’d heard her speak at all. As it was, he was quite certain, and he smirked at her.

“That is, by far, the kindest description of myself I have received. I’ve heard eccentric, insane, and ‘sent from the devil himself.’”

The corners of her lips quirked upward, and Sherlock’s stomach swooped with joy. _At last, a smile!_ And oh, what a smile… it brought a sparkle to her eyes that sent his heart racing. From the dustiest corner of his mind, the thought came that perhaps he should be worried about the effect she had on him, but he silenced it immediately. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn.

Her tail curled in on itself as she shifted, leaning forward and giving him a much clearer view of her… person. He swallowed again.

“You are no lover of treasure,” she spoke again. “Nor do you wish for glory. You love the sea for what it is.”

Sherlock stared in wonder at this entirely _too_ beautiful creature, who had seen into his innermost heart, into his very soul. Everything she’d said was correct. He cared little for gold and jewels, beyond maintaining what was necessary for food and drink. He thought even less of the glories attributed to many men such as he. From his earliest memories of his childhood days, he’d loved the sea, loved to gaze at it from the shore, and longed to explore its mysteries.

As he grew, his every thought was bent on becoming a sailor. His brother had purchased a commission for him to join the Royal Navy, but Sherlock had no interest in following orders. He was his own man, and he would find his own way. And find it, he did. After years of toil, scraping and saving every shilling, he finally earned enough to buy a dinghy, and thus his sea-faring days began.

And this delicate, incandescent being had seen _all_ of it.

“Who are you?” he asked a bit breathlessly. “What is your name?”

She smiled again, that same, subtle curl of her lips. “Molly.”

“Molly,” he repeated, delighting in the way her name tasted on his lips. “I am Captain Sherlock Holmes.”

Her smile grew, and Sherlock was nearly undone. “I know.”


	8. Stormy Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt (ages ago) from @writingwife-83: “Stormy.” I tried three different ways to make this unique, and longer. Each attempt failed more spectacularly than the last. I’m afraid this little ficlet will have to do.

“God, what a storm!” Molly muttered as she pulled on her coat. Outside, sheets of rain pelted the windows and roofs of Baker Street, while thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Yes,” Sherlock said from somewhere behind her.

Molly watched from the window, grimacing faintly at what awaited her. Passers-by scurried as quickly as they could, turning up their collars and opening umbrellas in what seemed to be rather futile attempts to shield themselves. “Not looking forward to that,” she mumbled without thinking.

“Then don’t go.”

“What?” she sputtered through a laugh, but her humor soon faded. As she turned to face Sherlock, she found him much closer to her than expected, wearing a rather shocking expression. His eyes, at the moment mirroring the stormy, grey skies, both pierced her and pleaded with her. Her insides churned as he brought a gentle hand to her face, her mind and heart battling furiously with one another. His, however, seemed to be joined in perfect clarity, as he whispered one simple word:

“Stay.”


	9. Willpower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @alengmae on Tumblr: “Willpower.”

He was making this very difficult. The git. Couldn’t he see it? Couldn’t he tell she was hanging on by a thread? Oh, he probably could, knowing him; he just didn’t care.

“Sherlock, I’m leaving,” she said at last.

His eyes clashed with hers. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Yes, I’m sure you do. But… it’s time.”

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between them. Molly’s throat tightened with his every step, her gaze locked with his. He stopped inches from her, their breath mingling as she watched… waited… for his next move.

“Alright then, darling,” he said with a cheerful smile, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Have a lovely day. Do say hello to Stamford for me.” And with that, he crossed the room, plopped into his chair, opened the newspaper, and effectively closed the conversation.

_What…?_

“Sherlock,” she began cautiously, “we’ve had two whole weeks. The honeymoon can’t go on forever.”

“I understand,” he said affably from behind the paper. “As you said, it’s time.” He lowered the paper just enough to smile at her. Anyone else might have missed the subtle quirk of his brow and the mischievous twinkle of his eye. Oh, that git. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing. And damn it, it was working. Little by little, Molly felt her willpower crumbling to dust. Oh, well. It had been feeble at best to begin with.

She set her handbag on the nearby yellow chair, shed her coat, and sighed. “Fine. But tomorrow, I really _will_ have to go to work, you know.”

Sherlock tossed the paper aside, leapt to his feet, and gathered her into his arms. “Ah, but that’s tomorrow. No need to think about it now.” His lips captured hers in a kiss that left her breathless. Dear God, would she ever get used to that? “Today is still ours. Let’s make the best of it.”


	10. One Step Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a delightful gif set by @saltmer on Tumblr. If you would like to see the gifs, go to Tumblr and search the tag “#saltmer sherlolly pic fic” and you should find it.

Molly sighed quietly to herself as she left her office, flicking the light switch on her way out. Eleven hours, four post-mortems, and a tower of paperwork, which she hadn’t even made it halfway through. She’d meant to stay and finish it, but an angry phone call from Mike—well meant, but angry nonetheless—put a stop to that idea. He ordered her, in no uncertain terms, to go home and get some rest. And she had to admit, she was grateful. That much paperwork would have taken all night, leaving her crabby and exhausted for tomorrow’s early shift. Leaving now gave her the opportunity to eat a decent meal, open a bottle of wine, and soothe her sore muscles with a hot bath, before settling into a good night’s sleep.

Thoughts of these small pleasures kept her distracted, until a slight movement in the lab caught her eye. She blinked a few times, unsure if the muted light from the corridor was playing tricks on her. Seated before her, hunched over in obvious pain, with a number of raw, bleeding gashes across his chest, was Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock?” she whispered, her gut clenching at the sight.

Slowly, he lifted his head and met her gaze, his eyes weary and red-rimmed, one of them swollen and bruised. More blood trickled from a cut in his bottom lip, another on his cheek, and yet another on his temple, and a sheen of sweat and grime coated his skin. Quite frankly, he looked like hell.

“Molly,” he sighed, his voice rough and almost trembling. “I… need your help.”

Well, that was an understatement. _So much for that hot bath_ , she grumbled in her head, but quickly shed her coat and retrieved the first aid kit. She set to work immediately, first cleaning his wounds, then assessing the damage. They looked terrible, but not deep enough to need sutures. Just a good bandage to keep them clean, and some antiseptic, just to be safe.

Sherlock hissed in pain as she applied hydrogen peroxide to the wounds, and Molly winced right along with him. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Better this than an infection, though.”

“It’s fine.”

Molly avoided his eyes as she worked, though she could feel them following her every move. Probably deducing something, though God knew what it was. She focused on her task, and tried not to think too hard.

She failed.

One year, almost to the day, since Moriarty. Since he jumped. Since he told her she counted. She still had trouble believing it, though he was _here_. This made twice, now, that he’d come to her in desperate need. Perhaps she ought to feel flattered, but she couldn’t help being a bit confused. So many things that didn’t quite add up in her mind…

“You have questions,” he said abruptly, just as she finished with the bandages on his chest, and was about to move on to his face. “Ask them.”

Molly shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant. “You probably can’t answer most of them, anyway.”

“Try me.”

She sighed and let her hands fall, still holding a cotton swab in one, hydrogen peroxide in the other. With a deep breath she looked him in the eye and asked, “Where have you been?”

His face fell. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “I can’t answer that.”

Molly nodded, but dared to ask another question. “What caused this?” she gestured to his bandages.

“Some idiot thug. He’s worse off, I assure you. But he did have a set of brass knuckles, and I, unfortunately, happened to be shirtless at the time.”

She smiled briefly, but the seriousness of the situation lingered and quickly dampened her momentary humor. Taking another breath, she met his eyes again. “Why me?”

His brow furrowed, and he began firing off a number of safe, almost rehearsed replies. “You’re a medical professional, you know the situation, you’ve proven you can keep mum about—”

“I don’t just mean tonight, Sherlock,” she interrupted. “I mean… why come to me in the first place? Why did you ask _me_ to help you?”

He blinked a few times, slowly, his frown still in place. “Because you’re my… friend.”

Molly wasn’t sure she liked the way she hesitated before the word ‘friend.’ “You don’t sound terribly sure of that.”

More blinking, more frowning. “I’m… not.”

 _Ouch_. Averting her eyes, Molly swallowed thickly. “Okay, well… there’s that, then.”

“Molly.”

She lifted her hands, still holding the cotton and antiseptic. “Best tend to the rest of—”

Sherlock grabbed her by the wrists, effectively cutting her off. “Molly, please listen. I can see you’ve misinterpreted my response. My uncertainty has nothing to do with my own level of trust and respect for you. I said you count, and I meant it.” His grip on her wrists tightened a bit as his gaze wavered. “But somehow, applying the word ‘friend’ to you feels…” he trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Wrong?” she guessed.

He gave a slight shake of the head, then his eyes found hers again. “Inadequate.”

Molly blinked in surprise. “Oh?”

Sherlock nodded. “You have always been there for me, Molly, even when I was unkind to you. You helped keep me alive. You’re helping me now.” He gave a soft, unusually sincere smile. “I’m not sure what the appropriate term is, but I do know that ‘friend’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

It took all the strength of will in Molly’s possession to keep from snogging him right there in the lab. But she knew it would set them back, rather than move things forward. Sherlock was still learning to let people into his life, and would need more time to come around to the idea of a romantic relationship. If and when he decided he wanted one, and if he wanted one with _her_ , she would run straight into his arms without hesitation. Until then, this unnamed, uncertain, baby-step forward would have to do.

“Well,” she said finally, “we can call it ‘friends’ until you come up with something more appropriate. Deal?”

His smile grew, and he released her wrists. “Deal.”


	11. Just a Teacup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @saffysmom on Tumblr: “Teacup.” Lucky lady, she has the same teacup that was used in our beloved ILY scene! Click on the link below to see a picture of the cup, and to read my initial draft of this chapter. Happy reading!

<https://musicprincess1990.tumblr.com/post/620029083964899328/musicprincess1990-saffysmom-mizjoely>

*

Sherlock stared in horror at the cup as the attached memory resurfaced. It was one of the few time he truly hated his ability to catalog and retain the tiny, inconsequential details the rest of the world missed. As he turned the cup in his hand, with its black and white flowers and leaves, and colorful little birds on either side, he had the sudden, violent urge to smash it against the wall.

He’d almost lost her that day. That horrible, _horrible_ day…

“Are you going to have a cup, or just stare at it all day?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, meeting the amused gaze of Molly Hooper, the woman he _hadn’t_ lost. He had to remind himself of that on a regular basis, or he’d go mad. She was here, perfectly well and whole… and happy. Happy with _him_.

The amusement faded, concern taking its place, as Molly set the steaming kettle back on the stove and crossed over to him. “Sherlock?” she said gently, laying a hand over his, still gripping the teacup. “What’s wrong?”

In another life, with any other person, he might have closed off and dismissed it as nothing. But now, with Molly, he couldn’t pretend. Didn’t _want_ to pretend. In the months since they’d become a couple, he’d made incredible progress with sharing and accepting his emotions. At first, he’d been afraid he would feel less like himself, like the “Great Sherlock Holmes” the rest of the world saw. To his surprise, and the surprise of all except a select few (present company included), he felt _more_ like himself. More like a good man. More worthy of her love.

“You were making tea,” he finally spoke in a low, rumbling whisper. “You didn’t answer your phone at first, just… kept making tea.”

Molly, having been made aware of the details of Sherrinford not long after the incident itself, understood immediately. She glanced at the cup, remembering all to well the events of that day. And she remembered using it, her favorite teacup. Sometimes, she would wash it immediately after use, just so she could use it the next time she fixed a cuppa. But, seeing the haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes as he held it, gazed at it… she suddenly hated the thing.

With gentle, yet sure hands, she loosened his grip and took the cup from him. He watched her cross the room, tap her foot on the lever to open the bin, and dropped it in with a thud. Sherlock’s jaw dropped as the lid closed, and Molly brushed her hands off, as if she’d just tossed a spoiled, dirt-covered vegetable.

“But you…” he blinked several times, “that-that was your favorite cup…”

Molly met his eyes as she returned to him, and placed her hands on either side of his face. She pressed a tender kiss to his lips, and his arms sought her waist, pulling her closer. After the kiss ended, she smiled up at him. “It’s just a cup.”

There she went again, surprising him. Sherlock kissed her fervently, their tea forgotten as they lost themselves in one another.


	12. The Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a gif set of Sherlock (link below) in various scenes, removing his scarf. Mmmmm…

<https://musicprincess1990.tumblr.com/post/620031886047182848/musicprincess1990-musicprincess1990>

*

Molly blinked owlishly at the sight that greeted her. When Sherlock told her to come to Baker Street at once, she’d assumed it had to do with a case. Or he’d been cornered into babysitting duty and was struggling to handle Rosie on his own. Wouldn’t be the first time. But no, when she arrived at his flat, she found no clients, no case, no Rosie. Nothing but Sherlock.

A very naked Sherlock.

Well, naked except the blue scarf around his neck.

“Rosie better not be asleep in your bedroom,” she blurted out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “She’s at home with John, of course.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “And Mrs. Hudson?”

“Playing cards with Mrs. Turner. I expect she won’t return until quite late, and will have consumed copious amounts of sherry, rendering her quite oblivious to any goings-on around her.”

Molly nodded pensively, then slowly dragged her gaze over to him. Matching smirks spread across their faces as they moved toward one another. They met in the middle with a searing kiss that curled Molly’s toes and weakened her knees. Before things could get too far, she pulled back, her eyes focusing on the soft fabric still looped around his neck. She trailed open palms along his chest, delighting in the shivering groan it elicited, and eased the scarf out of its loop and off his neck entirely.

“How long have you been wanting to do that?” he asked roughly, drawing her near again.

She smiled against his lips. “I’ll never tell.”


	13. Not You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hate seeing you like this." A prompt from @juldooz on Tumblr, from a list of angst/fluff sentence starters.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at Molly, standing to his left, her eyes trained on the headstone at their feet. _His_ headstone. It had been a year since Moriarty… since he’d fallen… and it was the first time he’d been on English soil since then. Mycroft had vehemently argued against his return, even if it was just for the day, but Sherlock had calculated the risk, and was willing to take it.

Besides, with the short ginger hair and matching beard, brown contact lenses, and a pair of spectacles to boot, who would recognize him?

Well… aside from Molly. She always recognized him.

Her words registered, and Sherlock felt something twist inside him, something he couldn’t name. Uncomfortable and unused to the sensation, he attempted to sweep it under the metaphorical rug. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he muttered softly.

Molly grinned, looking up at him. “The eyes.”

“I thought they rather suited me,” he pretended to be affronted.

Giggling softly, Molly shook her head. In the process, her eyes lighted once more on the name— _his_ name—carved in stone. All traces of playfulness fled from her face, and she sighed. “Actually,” she whispered, “it’s _this_.”

The twisting feeling was back, and Sherlock shifted uneasily on his feet. “Well, I’m not really dead, am I?”

“No,” she agreed softly, “thank God, you’re not. But… you’re not _here_. Not really.” She sighed again. “You don’t come bursting into the lab, or the morgue, demanding to see someone’s kidneys. You don’t smoke your cigarettes in the corridor when you think I’m not paying attention. You don’t deduce everyone who walks through the door.” Her eyes shifted to him again. “I hate seeing you forced to be… _not you_.”

Sherlock had no response to that, but Molly didn’t seem to expect one. Smiling sadly, she turned away from the grave and left him there. With her every step, his insides twisted more and more, until he struggled to breathe. Annoyed by all the emotions he couldn’t name, Sherlock grumbled under his breath and shoved everything aside—London, his friends, his work—and turned his thoughts once more toward the task at hand. He still had much to do before Moriarty’s network would be truly disassembled, and that would require absolute focus.

Without another look at the false grave, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the cemetery behind.

Strangely, he was unable to do the same to that twisting sensation…


	14. Fierce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by my own saltiness toward one John Watson. Part of me still isn’t over his horrid treatment of Sherlock in TLD, so… this happened.

“Molly, I realize you’re upset—”

“Don’t interrupt me, John!” the tiny woman snarled, and he wisely took a step back. “And you’d do well to remember my profession, which means I know how to murder you and make it look like an accident! _And_ ,” her voice raised another decibel, “I happen to be in a relationship with the greatest detective in the world! They would _never_ find the body!”

John swallowed.

From his place in the kitchen, Sherlock smiled. He had long since forgiven John for the beating he’d taken at his friend’s hand… and his feet. But he couldn’t help enjoying the look on John’s face as he finally, _finally_ realized how fiercely loyal Molly was, and just how far she would go to defend (or avenge) the people she loved. Sherlock now knew how fortunate he was to be included on that list, and in the months following Sherrinford, he had set about proving to her that she was at the top of his.

Also, being referred to as the greatest detective in the world… wasn’t the worst thing.

“I swear to you, Molly, it won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t, John Watson,” her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, somehow more terrifying than the shouting had been. Then, in a jarring one-eighty that made John rear his head back, she smiled and cooed at Rosie, “Because if it does, Daddy will lose some very important organs, won’t he? Oh, yes he will!”

Sherlock finished up in the kitchen and brought a tray into the sitting room. “Tea, John?” he grinned.


	15. The Sun and Her Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @colonialfire24 on Tumblr: "Sunflower." This little ficlet is like cotton candy - pure fluff and sweetness!

Molly’s hand trembled as she reached for the flower on her desk, not sure whether she should laugh or cry. She stroked one of its golden petals, rubbing the softness of it between her forefinger and thumb, before moving on to the small, velvet box just to its left. As she opened it, revealing the expected (yet also _un_ expected) diamond ring, she heard footsteps approaching from behind her, then the rustle of fabric that sounded very much like someone kneeling.

Pivoting on the spot, she found Sherlock Holmes down on one knee, looking more terrified than she had ever seen him. She was half tempted to throw her arms around him and scream, “ _YES!!_ ” before he even had a chance to ask the question, but the larger part wanted to _hear_ it, to _savor_ it.

After two shuddering breaths, he spoke, his voice low. “Molly Hooper… I… forgot my whole bloody speech,” he finished on an exhale, a shaky smile appearing. Molly covered her mouth with her free hand to smother a giggle. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to see the flower still resting on the desk, and he remembered. Lifting his eyes to her, he tried again.

“A sunflower’s beauty is lost on many. To some, they’re a bit like glorified weeds. I once thought of _you_ as a sunflower,” he began, reaching for her hand, which she placed in his without reservation. “Unusual. Complex. Lovely, but in an unassuming way. However…” he stroked his thumb along the back of her hand, “I’ve since come to see things differently. You, Molly Hooper, are the _sun_.” His shaky smile returned. “And I am the glorified weed, always seeking your light.”

Molly let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, but she was grinning widely, so Sherlock took it as encouragement, and finally asked, “Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will, you ridiculous man!” she cried, and cupped his face in her hands as she gave him an enthusiastic kiss.


	16. The Next Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @writingwife-83 on Tumblr: "Writing." Because if anyone would, it would be Wifey. ;-)
> 
> This turned into an early-retirement fic, and I must admit I LOVE IT. I’m picturing them both being in their late fifties, maybe just 60. (You know, in case you wanted a visual.) Oh, and please forgive the lame chapter title. If and when I think up a better one, I'll update it. Cheers!

Sherlock paused mid-stride as he passed the door to the study. Inside, seated at the desk and typing furiously on her laptop, was his wife. He backtracked and stepped just inside the doorway, watching as Molly swiped at a loose strand of her graying hair. She’d cut it some weeks ago, claiming she was “too old for plaits and party ‘dos” now. The new style, a textured bob that curled slightly at the chin-length ends, was actually quite flattering. However, as she grumbled and brushed the same wayward strand out of her face yet again, he suspected she now regretted the decision.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock backed up, leaned backward through the bathroom door—conveniently, just across the hallway—and swiped two hair grips from her basket of toiletries. Then he crossed the distance to his wife, standing behind her, and announced his presence with a brief, gentle caress on the side of her neck.

It was a testament to how familiar these scenarios had become that she didn’t flinch at his touch. In fact, she showed no outward reaction, and at the contact, muttered softly, “Give me ten minutes, Sherlock.”

“You’re five chapters from the end, and if I know you—which I _do_ —you won’t stop until you’ve finished, and then proofread the whole of it at least three times. I don’t believe even _you_ can manage that in ten minutes, darling.”

“Prat,” she grumbled, but smiled to herself as she kept typing.

“Which is why,” he ignored her affectionate insult, “I thought I might make it a bit easier for you to concentrate.” He gathered the front strands of her hair and pulled them up and back, creating a small bump, before pinning the hair securely in place at the top of her head.

The typing stopped as he withdrew her fingers, and she leaned her head back to smile at him. “You really _are_ a proper genius.”

Sherlock chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Take as long as you need,” he murmured against her skin, then his tender smile turned into a smirk. “After all, my biography is something that shouldn’t be rushed.”

Molly reached back and swatted his head, prompting him to retreat, laughing as he went. She shook her head at his antics, but returned to her pathology textbook in progress… which was, unfortunately, starting to read a bit more like a Sherlock Holmes biography. Well, it was hardly _her_ fault if the impossible man, whom she now called her husband, had forced his way into her life with a dramatic flourish and a riding crop. But of course, she wouldn’t have it any other way.


	17. Mutually Befuddled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @mizjoely on Tumblr: "Mutual." I kinda went backwards on this one; I started off with only the last sentence, and eventually, piece by piece, the rest of it filled in. I'm actually quite pleased with the way it turned out. And I made myself giggle-snort with the chapter title. These two idiots... how we love them!

Molly huffed in exasperation; _of course_ he was here. It seemed she could not go anywhere in London without that odious man suddenly turning up. She could not understand how a man such as he could merit an invitation to Almack’s. The society mothers loathed him, saying that no mother in her right mind would wish for her daughter to marry such a man. And yet, there he stood, polished and poised in his finery, looking far more handsome than he had any right to do.

Molly would never admit it to anyone, but his handsomeness was one of the reasons she disliked him. How could a man so horrid possess such a face? His keen eyes, a hypnotic swirl of green and blue, seemed to pierce the soul of any person who should gaze into them. The cut of his jaw and his prominent cheekbones sent wild, wanton fantasies through her head. And oh, those _lips_... just the thought of kissing those full, lush lips set her blushing like a fool.

However, despite her attraction to him, one had only to speak with the man for a few, brief moments to realize that he was no gentleman.

Her skin crawled even now as she recalled that first meeting...

_“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes,” she smiled cheerfully. “My cousin has told me of your adventures in London.”_

_The man scoffed, rolling his eyes for good measure. “Stamford is prone to exaggeration and over-exuberance, and has a knack for missing the most important details. I should think his retellings woefully inadequate.”_

_Molly blinked in surprise, while below the surface, her indignation began a slow boil. “I-I beg your pardon?”_

_“I will not repeat myself, Miss Hooper,” he sneered. “My ‘adventures,’ as you called them, are not the business of anyone but myself, least of all a plain, stammering country mouse with a head full of fancy and a decided lack of wit.”_

_The sound of her hand striking his face seemed to echo, even in the small, modest parlor of her cousin’s home. A hush washed over the party, and all eyes were trained on them. Molly’s face grew warm at being the center of attention, but she refused to cower before him. Tears welled in her eyes as she held his surprised gaze._

_“How dare you?” she breathed, her voice low and unusually even. “How can you say such horrible things? Have you no shame, Mr. Holmes?” She shook her head, not allowing him time to form an answer. “You haven’t, have you? No sense of what your words might leave in your wake.”_

_She brazenly stepped forward, and his eyes widened a fraction, but he did not move. Craning her head to continue holding his gaze, she whispered the parting blow: “One day, Mr. Holmes, you will find yourself entirely alone because of your cruelty, and you will wish you might have behaved more like the gentleman you claim to be.”_

Molly had never done something so bold in her life, and she recalled the sheer exhaustion that had set in the moment she reached her room. And since that night, she had taken pains to avoid the horrid man, although fate, with her cruel sense of humor, seemed keen to throw him into every situation in which she found herself. She had nearly crossed paths with him every day for the past week, only just managing to escape each time. Even now, she considered how and when she might make her excuses, but her heart weighed heavy at the thought of leaving her first ball at Almack’s. _It’s not fair_ , she moaned petulantly in her head.

“Molly!” a familiar voice called, and she turned to see her dear friend Mary Morstan approaching.

“Mary!” she beamed, her displeasure nearly forgotten as she embraced her friend. “How wonderful to see a familiar face!”

The women smiled at another, then linked arms and took to walking around the edge of the vast ballroom. Mary chatted with exuberance, telling Molly of the handsome doctor she had met the night before, and hoped to meet again tonight. And fate, it seemed, was very much in Mary’s corner… but decidedly _not_ in Molly’s. Within only a few minutes, they had indeed met with Dr. Watson, who was in attendance with his closest friend… _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_.

A stream of words terribly unfit for a lady poured through Molly’s head as she saw him. Her throat closed in dread, and she cast her eyes about, hoping to find some escape, but none came. With an inward sigh, she resigned herself to her fate.

“Miss Morstan!” the cheerful doctor greeted her as they neared. “Lovely to see you again!”

“And you, Dr. Watson,” she smiled in reply. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Margaret Hooper?”

The customary bow and curtsy were exchanged. “A pleasure, Miss Hooper.”

“Likewise,” she said in a small voice.

The doctor half-turned toward Mr. Holmes, with the intent of making his own introductions, but before he could speak, Mr. Holmes said, “Miss Hooper and I have already met.”

“Have you?” Dr. Watson faced her again, eyebrows raised.

Her face warmed, silently praying he would not press for details. “Yes, we… met at a dinner party hosted by my cousin, Mr. Stamford.”

“Stamford is your cousin?” he asked, his surprise increased. “Good heavens, what a small world we live in! I studied with Stamford at Cambridge, more years ago than I care to admit. I should like to renew our acquaintance, is he here tonight?”

Molly nodded once. “Yes, sir, though I’m afraid I am not entirely sure _where_.”

Dr. Watson chuckled. “Very easy to lose someone in a crush like this. Well, it was lovely to meet you, but if you will permit, I would very much like to steal Miss Morstan for a dance.”

“Certainly, Dr. Watson,” Molly beamed, and away they went.

It was only after the music began that she remembered that Mr. Holmes still stood nearby. She glanced up at him, then gave a start at the realization that he was watching her. Nervously, she smoothed her skirt, her hair, her gloves, anything that did not involve looking at him.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Hooper?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his in bewilderment. “What?” she blurted out, too stunned to think much of manners and propriety.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked again.

Molly stared for a moment. “Why?”

A small, confused pucker formed between his eyebrows. “‘Why’? Because I would like to dance with you. Is that truly so difficult to comprehend?”

“Yes,” she answered without delay.

Mr. Holmes sighed, but rather than exasperation, she saw… _remorse?_ “Miss Hooper, I am sorry for the way I spoke to you before. I was wholly out of line, and I am ashamed to think of it. I would like to make amends, which I am sure will take some time, but I hoped a dance might be an initial step in the right direction.”

He met her eyes, a look of boyish vulnerability shining through them. For a moment, she was lost in their mercurial depths, mesmerized by the swirl of ever-changing color. Still half-ensconced in her stupor, she again spoke bluntly. “I find you exceedingly puzzling, Mr. Holmes.”

A smile curved his lips, and the effect it had on her was startling. Her entire body grew warm, and she was certain a flush had spread from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Mr. Holmes held out a hand to her, and she took it mindlessly, staring at his beautiful face, utterly entranced.

“I can assure you, Miss Hooper,” he said, leading her to join the dance, “the feeling is decidedly mutual.”


	18. Rules Are Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by @incorrectsherlollyquotes on Tumblr. I planned on including a link to my original post, but after copying the text to Google Docs, I stupidly closed the tab, and... well, it's lost now. If I find it, I'll update. Completely forgot this little ficlet, so much fun rediscovering these!

“I dare you to kiss the next person who walks in the room.”

Sherlock grimaced at his best friend and study partner, John Watson, as he raised a challenging brow. They were in the library, studying for an upcoming maths exam. (Well, _John_ was studying, whereas Sherlock, who felt more than confident in his mastery of calculus, simply read.)

“That’s ridiculous,” he rolled his eyes, before turning them back to his book. “I’m not kissing anyone.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but before he had the chance, the door opened. John’s head whipped round to see the newcomer, and Sherlock, his natural curiosity getting the better of him, glanced over as well. In walked Molly Hooper, his lab partner in advanced chemistry… and the girl he fancied.

_Damn._

“Hello!” she greeted cheerfully, brushing a few stray hairs off her face. “Sorry I’m late, had to stop to feed Toby. Hasn’t eaten all day, the poor… Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, snapping out of a momentary trance. He deliberated for a moment, then rose to his feet. As he approached her, Molly’s eyes widened, before flitting down to his lips. Well, there was nothing for it.

“Okay, I’ll do it, rules are rules,” he muttered by way of explanation, then crashed his lips over Molly’s. John silently laughed to himself as he pulled out his mobile and reread the text from Molly he’d received only minutes before.

_Had to make a stop, but I’m on my way. Be there in 5 minutes!_


	19. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst/fluff sentence-starter prompt from @writingwife-83: “It’s okay, I couldn’t sleep anyway.” I didn’t feel like this particular sentence worked as an opener, so I fit it in the middle. #IDoWhatIWant

Molly froze in bed at the sound of someone picking her lock. She sighed and sat upright, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed and into her slippers. She didn’t bother with a dressing gown, it was entirely too warm a night for that anyway. With shuffled steps, she made her way to the front door, quickly unlocking and opening it.

As expected, Sherlock Holmes knelt in her doorway, lock-picking tool stills in hand, and raised as if the door hadn’t been opened. After a moment, he lowered his hands and glanced up at her. “Molly.”

“Sherlock,” she raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Picking the lock, obviously.”

“You do know you have a key, right? I gave it to you yesterday, surely you couldn’t have forgotten already?”

He stood in one fluid movement that made her feel clumsy and awkward, even though she wasn’t moving at all. “Of course I hadn’t forgotten,” he muttered, pulling the aforementioned key out of his pocket and showing it to her.

“Then why were you picking the lock?”

Molly couldn’t be sure, the night being as dark as it was, but she thought she saw a fain blush creep up his neck. He didn’t answer, merely swept past her and into the sitting room. She shut the door and followed him, watching as he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “Sorry to have woken you,” he finally spoke as he seated himself on the sofa.

“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.” She sat beside him, waiting for him to explain himself. But the detective seemed in no hurry to provide any answers, instead leaning his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together beneath his chin. _Ah_ , she understood then. _Thinking_. Without a word, she stood and moved into the kitchen, and set about making tea.

Just as the kettle began to whistle, Sherlock joined her, watching from the doorway. Molly looked back, unable to discern the expression on his face. “Sherlock?” she prompted. “Everything alright?”

It was then that she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well, either. Molly turned off the stove. Tea could wait. She crossed the room to stand directly in front of him, his eyes following her every move. Lifting a hand, she traced the circle under his left eye with the pad of her thumb. He blinked at the unexpected contact, but otherwise remained motionless. And finally, Molly understood his expression.

He looked haunted.

“Tell me,” she breathed.

Sherlock swallowed hard, but did as she said. “I… tried to sleep. But I keep seeing… _him_.”

Molly nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. “It wasn’t him last time, though, was it? He’s dead, well and truly.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But there was more to his criminal web than I had ever anticipated. Even when I thought I’d brought down every last one of them…”

She lifted her other hand, holding his face between both hands. He stopped talking, his attention on her once again. “You _did_.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly, his right hand coming up to encircle her wrist. “Every time I see him… he has _you_. Sometimes as a hostage. Sometimes you’re his accomplice. And every time… I lose you.” His voice broke at the last word.

Molly gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m here, Sherlock.”

Something in him seemed to snap then, and he crushed her against him, arms holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. But she hugged him just as tightly, determined not to let go until he did. He buried his face in her hair, pulling her closer still, with whispered thank you’s brushing against her skin.

When he finally released her, his eyes were a bit red. Molly laced her fingers with his and led him into her bedroom. Sherlock toed his shoes off and climbed into bed beside her, still fully clothed. She scooted closer to him, and his arms immediately wound around her waist, tightening until her back was flush against his chest. Minutes later, they both fell into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.


	20. Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word prompt from @elennemigo on Tumblr: "LIAR!" But don't let that fool you, this is pure fluff. 😁

“LIAR!”

Before Sherlock could come up with a retort, his daughter turned on her heel and stomped out of the sitting room. He sighed, then winced at the sound of her bedroom door being slammed shut. Sherlock sank gracelessly onto the sofa beside his wife, suppressing another sigh. “When did I give her permission to become a teenager?”

Molly laughed and curled against him, looping her arm through his. “Well, you had sex with me, we conceived a daughter, and that, I’m afraid, was you giving your permission.” He groaned and let his head fall back. Molly chuckled again, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Anyway, you really should stop deducing every boy she talks about. She’s growing up, boys are going to happen.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he growled.

“ _Sherlock_.”

The no-nonsense tone of Molly’s voice was as familiar as it was frustrating… and he knew better than to argue his point any further. Unfortunately, that didn't stop him. “She’s too young to date.”

“She’s sixteen. Most people would say that’s the perfect time to start.”

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow at her. “Molly, you’ve known me for nearly thirty years, been married to me for twenty of those years. You, of all people, should know that I do not subscribe to what ‘most people’ consider normal.”

Her smile only grew, and Sherlock studied the laugh lines and crow’s feet with fascination. His face also bore the evidence of his years, years of rediscovering old, forgotten memories, of rebuilding his family, and of making a new life with Molly. They had gotten off to a shaky start, what with Eurus and her… interference. But, thanks in part to that interference, he had finally, to quote John, “gotten his head out of his arse and settled down.” Though he thought “settled down” was an exaggeration. The work remained, and his interests never changed. He just… found certain things more interesting than he used to. Such as marriage and children. And though today had been rather an unpleasant episode of teenage belligerence combined with parental overprotectiveness… he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Where have you gone?” Molly asked, bringing his attention back to her.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

He groaned again. “I’ll kill John for using that phrase so much. Wouldn’t have caught on the way it did.”

“The more you react, the more he does it,” she pointed out.

Peering at her from the corner of his eye, he grumbled, “Why must you always be so _wise_ , Molly?”

She smirked. “One of us has to be.”

He scoffed and gestured dismissively with his free hand. “Wisdom has never been a strength of the Holmes family.”

“Good thing you’ve got me to change that,” she giggled. “I’m afraid your children will have to learn wisdom in addition to intelligence.”

With a feigned sigh of resignation, Sherlock gently pulled his arm from her grasp, in order to settle it more comfortably around her shoulders. “I suppose I’ll just have to live with that. There are worse things than having children who are wiser than I am.”

“That’s the spirit,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. Sherlock smiled at her, then she snuggled against him. “That said, you know as well as I do that the only thing you dislike about Jacob Anderson is his father.”


	21. An Unconventional Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @rabbit-in-blue on Tumblr sent me a prompt in image form. I’ll include a link below, just forgive some of the errors, it was a first draft. Still, I’m rather proud of this little cotton candy ficlet.

<https://musicprincess1990.tumblr.com/post/622002697408741376/an-unconventional-proposal>

“This is nice,” Molly said, trying desperately to keep the tremor out of her voice. She wasn’t entirely sure she succeeded. Sherlock gave a somewhat stiff smile, his eyes darting from her face to her hand. Her _left_ hand.

They were in Angelo’s, seated at the coveted back-corner booth, the same booth at which they’d had their first real date. Sherlock had been a perfect gentleman that night, albeit a nervous one. Then Molly had asked about a recent case of his. He’d been surprised, thinking she would want him to keep his case work separate from their dating life, but she’d quickly set the record straight.

“Why on earth would you think that? We met because of your work, we became friends because of your work, and we are now a couple, _because of your work_. And besides, I love hearing about your cases. So, let’s hear it.”

The enthusiastic kiss he’d given her as a response had dissolved any remaining nervousness in either of them. From that point, the evening went splendidly, culminating in the unplanned, but certainly not unwelcome, “christening” of Baker Street.

Tonight, however, the nerves seemed to be getting the better of both of them… and Molly had a sneaking suspicion she knew why. The first glance at her hand, she’d hardly noticed. Even the second glance, the thought of _that_ hadn’t crossed her mind. But when there was a third glance… a fourth… a fifth… and now she had lost count… well, it all seemed to click into place. What was it Sherlock had said? _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ That meant there was really only one explanation.

Of course, her first instinct had been joy—oh, finally, _finally!_ —but as the evening continued on, with no question and no further hints, she grew more and more anxious. Why hadn’t he asked her? Was he rethinking the whole thing? Had he changed his mind? Oh God, what if he was going to break up with her?

She was dimly aware of the waiter collecting their plates and leaving the cheque, when Sherlock said abruptly, “Forgive me for being blunt, but are you going to ask me or not?”

Molly snapped to full attention. “Sorry? Ask you…?”

“Yes, ask me,” he huffed impatiently. “You’ve been agitated since the evening began, and you keep rubbing your ring finger with your thumb. It’s quite obvious what you want, so I’d prefer it if you would just spit it out, so I can say yes, and we can go back to your flat and celebrate.”

_Oh. My. God._

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Molly asked, “You think I was planning to propose to you?”

He blinked once. Twice. Then her favorite crinkle appeared between his eyebrows. “Aren’t you?”

Molly couldn’t help it… she laughed. Loudly, without restraint, startling the poor old couple two tables over, and earning a nasty look from the waiter. Sherlock frowned sullenly, waiting for her to finish.

“I thought _you_ were going to ask _me!_ ”

His eyebrows shot up at that, and his mouth parted in shock as he stared at her. And then, he was laughing with her. It took them several moments to compose themselves, and by then, their hands had joined atop the table.

“Well,” he murmured with a smile, “I suppose that means we’re getting married.”

Molly’s heart filled almost to bursting with love for this ridiculous man. Sliding closer to him, she pulled her hand from his, only to bury it in his hair and tug his head down for a slow, lingering kiss. When the kiss ended, she touched her forehead to his. “Trust us to get engaged in the least conventional way.”

“Mm,” he pursed his lips in thought, causing them to brush against hers, “I would say it’s the _least_ conventional. There were no pets involved, no life or death situations, no interactive website…”

She drew back and stared at him. “You looked up weird ways to propose, didn’t you?”

His ears turned pink. “Maybe.”

With a quiet chuckle, she pressed another kiss to his lips. “I’m rather mad about you , you know that?”

Sherlock grinned, his eyes twinkling. “I know.”


	22. Flatmates and Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly trope duos prompt from @writingwife-83: Bad day turned good + Flatmates. This chapter was a lot of fun to write. Enjoy!

Molly cringed as a roar thundered from the room below hers, followed by a resounding _thud_ , which she guessed was someone’s foot colliding violently with the nearest wall. That someone being her temporary flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

With her new position at Bart’s, she finally had the funds to have a flat all her own, and was supposed to have moved into a nice little spot over a week ago. Unfortunately, the building had been very suddenly condemned, leaving her homeless until she could find a new place. She made do with kipping on Meena’s sofa, but with her friend’s frequent visitors (particularly those of the male variety), she had a feeling her welcome would soon wear out.

One morning, while having lunch in the canteen, she’d been absently scrolling through listings online, when a familiar voice interrupted her perusal.

_“I would recommend steering well clear of Southall Green,” he said, startling her into dropping her fork on the table. He ignored this, and went on, “I know the landlord, an old schoolmate of mine. I also know he charges exorbitant fees from his tenants under the guise of a homeowners association, but in fact uses the money to fuel his gambling addiction. Can’t prove it yet, of course, but I will eventually.”_

_She swallowed the bite of pasta she’d taken before he’d turned up. “Oh, well… thanks for the tip.”_

_He nodded, appearing satisfied she’d taken his advice, but remained where he stood, watching her with a curious expression. Just as Molly was about to ask if he needed anything, he spoke again. “Incidentally, I’ve recently moved into a new flat myself, and there is an extra room…”_

_Molly’s jaw dropped. “Are… are you saying…?”_

_“Obviously, it would be temporary, until you find a new place of your own, but the location is rather ideal. Baker Street, just a few minutes’ cab ride away. And should I need access to a body for one of the Yard’s cases, it would be convenient to have you just upstairs.”_

_Of course, it was all about_ his _convenience. Nevertheless, Molly felt a blush forming beneath her cheeks, and a swarm of butterflies in her belly. There was no denying her attraction to him—really, just look at the man!—and he was right, it was much closer to work than the condemned flat would have been. That combined with the subtle arch of one eyebrow over his mercurial eyes… well, there really was no hope of refusal._

_“Well… if you’re sure, that-that would be… fine. Great, actually… thank you, Sherlock.”_

_He smiled briefly. “I’ll text you the address, feel free to move your things in whenever is convenient.” Sherlock glanced at his phone, then offered another smile. “Sorry, must be off, missing persons case, rather high-profile. I’ll leave your key with the landlady.” And with that, he swept off in his usual, dramatic fashion, leaving her in her usual, befuddled state._

In the week since then, life at Baker Street had been fairly quiet. In fact, Molly had seen Sherlock only twice since she’d moved in. She knew he came home at some point each day, the odd used cup added to the sink full of unwashed dishes proving he at least took tea now and again. She supposed he tended to come in after she’d gone to bed, and left each day before she woke. She’d seen him in passing while she visited with Mrs. Hudson, their delightful landlady, acknowledging them both with a smile before reaching into one of the cupboards and swiping a handful of ginger nuts. Mrs. Hudson scolded him, but made no further efforts to stop him, leading Molly to believe she was already quite fond of her new tenant.

The second time she’d seen him was perhaps an hour ago. It was her day off, and she’d spent most of the morning lazing about, but the aforementioned sink full of dishes demanded emptying, and put a brief hold on her lazing. She had just finished, and was about to settle into the new, comfortable-looking chair by the fire, when Sherlock pounded his way up the stairs, storming into the room and throwing himself onto the sofa. He scowled at the ceiling, either ignoring her or oblivious to her presence. Something about the look on his face told her not to try and make conversation, so she quietly made her way up the stairs, in order to give him some privacy.

A second _thud_ yanked her from her thoughts, and Molly bit her lip in concern, mingled with annoyance. Really, did he have to behave so childishly? But her concern won out, propelling her down the stairs and back into the sitting room. She peered in from the doorway in time to see a cricket ball soar across the room and make contact with the wall behind the sofa. _Ah, so not his foot then_ , she thought absently, watching the ball ricochet and land with a plop on one of the cushions.

“Molly,” Sherlock muttered grumpily by way of greeting.

“Bad day, was it?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” He produced another cricket ball—just how many did he have?—and gave it a violent toss, producing the same result. She counted four remaining on the sofa, and glanced back at him in time to see him reach into a box for yet another.

“Did you have a row with the wall?” she quipped.

_Thud_. “Don’t make jokes, Molly.”

“Well, something must have happened for you to abuse it like this.”

He paused mid-throw and scowled at her. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Well…” she floundered, her reticent nature pushing her to retreat.

“Spare me,” he cut her off, and threw his sixth cricket ball, which seemed to be the last, as he picked up the box and refilled it with the balls that had settled on the sofa. “There is nothing wrong with me. I did not have a bad day, I simply… want to practice. Never know when a good throwing arm might come in handy.”

“Bollocks,” she blurted without thinking, and his eyes shot up to meet hers. “I-I mean…” she stammered, but then, from somewhere deep within her, a burst of courage found its way up. “I don’t really… I don’t know you very well, but I know enough that oftentimes, your actions speak louder than your words.” When he made no response, just stared at her, listening, she went on.

“You try to put on this… this emotionless mask… but anyone looking closely enough can see that’s all it is. A _mask_. You do have emotions, I see them when you come into the lab or the morgue, when you’re on a case. It… excites you. And I know you care very much for Mrs. Hudson, even if you won’t say it. Clearly, there’s at least some level of affection, or she wouldn’t let you nick her ginger nuts,” she laughed softly, then sobered and looked him in the eye. “And it doesn’t take a genius to know you’re upset about something right now.”

Sherlock continued staring, blinking a few times. She’d seen that look before… once at Bart’s, he’d been on a case, trying to work out some clue or other. He’d been stumped, something he was not used to being.

Had… had _she_ stumped him?

“Um… Sherlock?” she frowned, feeling uneasy under the weight of his gaze.

Something in him seemed to snap. In two quick strides, he had crossed over to where she stood, eyes blazing, and before she could stammer out a coherent question, he had cradled her face in his hands and kissed her.

_Oh Lord, did he kiss her!_

His lips, soft and sweet and urgent, attacked hers with a passion she soon felt pooling in her belly. As she reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair, his arms moved to her waist, hoisting her up and pressing her against the nearest wall. On instinct, she wrapped her legs around him, and was rewarded with a deep, guttural groan that shot through her like lightning. He pressed closer, until, apparently not satisfied with their proximity, he pulled her away from the wall and carried her right into his bedroom.

Molly had no time to survey her new surroundings before being tossed onto the bed in a giggling heap. Sherlock followed, and soon it was all tangled limbs, breathless sighs, and removal of clothing, leading up to what was undoubtedly the best shag of her life.

While she caught her breath, she half expected him to close off, maybe even leave (though it was _his_ room). Instead, he surprised her by wrapping his arms around her, guiding her head to his shoulder. _Sherlock Holmes is a cuddler!_ she thought gleefully, but kept this thought to herself, lest he push her away.

“Sherlock?” she began tentatively.

“Hmm?”

She gnawed on her lip thoughtfully. “What exactly was that?”

He was quiet for a moment, then, “Molly, did your parents neglect to give you ‘The Talk’? If that is the case, I have to wonder how on earth you managed such a glowing performance just now.”

Molly grinned at his compliment, but jabbed him in the side with one finger. “Not what I meant, and you know it!”

Sherlock sighed, shifting them both so they lay on their sides, facing each other. His eyes, so stormy and intense before, now made her think of the ocean under a clear blue sky. “I don’t think anyone has been able to read me so clearly. Not even Mycroft.”

_Mycroft?_ Molly wondered who the owner of such an unusual name could be. Then again, _Sherlock_ wasn’t the most common name, either. Still, she couldn’t imagine any other name suiting him so well.

“I lost a client,” he spoke again, his eyes shifting pensively to her hair on the pillow. He moved a hand between them and toyed with the long, loose strands. “Eighteen years old. Looking for his younger brother. I solved it… but not until after I’d found them both dead in a warehouse in Chelsea.”

Molly’s throat tightened. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“I felt… guilt,” he admitted, his eyes still fixed on the strands of her hair that slid through his fingers. “Such a young man, barely a man at all, and his brother was even younger, only fifteen. I deal with death on a regular basis, and it has never bothered me… until today.” His eyes closed on an exhale. “If only I’d been there sooner—”

“ _Stop_ ,” she said firmly, and his eyes opened in surprise. “Don’t you dare blame yourself, this isn’t your fault. Sometimes, these things just… happen.” She brushed her fingers along his cheekbone, and his breath stuttered a bit. “You can’t save everyone, Sherlock.”

“Easy for you to say, they’re already dead when you meet them.”

Molly frowned and removed her hand, and the look he gave her as she did reminded her of a boy being scolded for doing something he didn’t know he’d done. “Not good?”

Oh, the adorable man… it was all she could do not to kiss those pouting lips.

Molly sighed. “No, not good. But you’re upset, so I’ll forgive you. _This time_ ,” she added with a grin.

He smirked, all traces of boyishness gone. “And I suppose the sex has nothing to do with it?”

“Keep that up, and I’ll _un-_ forgive you,” she swatted him.

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

“Mollyyyyy…”

“Sherlooooock…”

He silenced her with a kiss, and Molly completely forgot why she was cross with him to begin with. Sherlock shifted until he was leaning over her, deepening the kiss and turning her insides to jelly. She had just enough presence of mind, however, to break off and give one final warning.

“You can’t just snog me into getting what you want, Sherlock Holmes.”

“What if what I want is to snog you?” he countered.

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

He sighed. “Fine. I will never use your addiction to my body as a means of getting my way. May I please get back to snogging you?”

“Oh, you—!”

But whatever insult she’d planned to throw at him was swallowed by Sherlock’s insistent lips. And Molly just couldn’t bring herself to care.


	23. Love on the Rockies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly trope duos prompt from @mizjoely on Tumblr: Heat wave + Huddling for warmth. DIABOLICAL. But this actually ended up being easier than expected. All I had to do was put them in my home state.

“We are _never_ coming here again, Sherlock,” Molly grumbled, shivering and inching closer to the fire.

When Sherlock told her he had a case in America, she had anticipated New York, or Los Angeles, or maybe even Las Vegas. Instead, they found themselves in the Rocky Mountains of Utah, which, while beautiful in their own way, had the strangest climate she had ever experienced.

The case had brought them to a luxurious, secluded cabin, where their client had arranged to meet them. He’d had several personal items in the cabin missing, and insisted someone had stolen them. Sherlock’s search for clues led them through the woods, not dense enough to provide adequate shade from the sweltering desert sun. Molly silently vowed, as she trudged through the forest, her blouse clinging to her dampened skin, she would never again complain about the stormy climate of England.

The “thief” turned out to be the client himself, hoping to cash in on his insurance. _Dull_ , Sherlock had complained. Unfortunately, her ridiculous boyfriend had also taken a shine to their surroundings, and insisted on using the sleep bags they’d toted along “just in case.” Molly had a sneaking suspicion he’d intended to stay the night from the beginning. It wouldn’t have been an issue, but the moment the sun dipped below the mountains, the temperature dropped drastically, and her clothes, damp with sweat, felt like ice against her skin.

“It’s not so bad,” Sherlock shrugged, looking perfectly comfortable in his Belstaff—another _just in case_ item she had questioned, further proving the idea that he’d planned this.

Molly glared at him. “ _You_ have your big, swishy coat. _I_ have an old, knit cardigan, which is too thin and has too many holes to be of much use.”

Sherlock looked over at her, his eyes fliting down to the cardigan in question. Teal, with a chevron knit pattern that, yes, left a great many holes. It was one of his favorites, which he supposed was why she’d packed it. The thought made him smile. He scooted across the open sleep bag, closer to where she sat, and wrapped her in his coat, and arms, pressing a kiss to her neck for good measure. The shiver that went through her at that, he suspected, had very little to do with the cold.

“I suppose I’ll just have to warm you up,” he murmured in the deepest voice he could manage, eliciting another shiver.

Molly turned in his arms to look up at him, her displeasure replaced with a saucy smile. “Get on with it, then.”

He didn’t need telling twice.


	24. Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly trope duos prompt from @juldooz on Tumblr: Bad day turned good + On holiday. I tried not to make this TFP-related… I didn’t try hard, but I did try. It just fits so well!

Molly swiped at the remaining tears clinging to her face as she pulled up to the quaint coastal inn. Once parked, she grabbed her hastily-packed bag and checked her reflection one last time. _Well_ , she mused with a sigh, _there’s not much I can do about that_. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she had what she suspected might be a pimple forming on her chin. _Lovely_ , she grimaced, then decided she didn’t care, and with a resolute nod, Molly climbed out of the car and made for the lobby.

The concierge looked up as she entered, and his brows furrowed momentarily in concern. Molly worried he would ask if she was alright—which she was decidedly _not_ —but his features smoothed into a polite smile. “Welcome, miss. Checking in?”

“Yes,” she nodded, approaching the desk. “Molly Hooper.”

He scrolled and clicked a few times on his computer, then asked, “May I have your card, miss?”

Molly set her credit card on the desk, and the concierge swiped and clicked some more, before handing it back to her, along with her key. “We have you in room six. Up the stairs, second door on your left. Enjoy your stay,” he added with another smile.

“Thanks,” she breathed, and quickly made her way up the stairs. Room six was fairly small, but had a decent-sized bed and a private bathroom, and was decorated in a homey cottage style. She dropped her bag unceremoniously by the door, rested her back against it, and slid down to the floor in a boneless heap, smiling for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. _At last!_

After a few minutes on the floor, not moving, not thinking, just _being_ , Molly got up and crossed over to the bathroom, readying herself for bed. She took a bath, soaking in the hot water for perhaps longer than necessary, then trudged back over to the bed, plopping gracelessly onto it, not even bothering to put on her pyjamas. She was alone, after all… always alone.

 _No!_ she told herself sternly. _This holiday is not about self pity!_ With a resolute nod to herself, she curled up in bed, delighting in the feel of the soft, cool sheets against her bare skin. It took only a few minutes for her heart to slow down, her breath along with it, and her mind to surrender to a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Molly’s next awareness was the sound of waves crashing and seagulls calling from outside her open window. _Odd_ , she thought. She couldn’t remember it being open before, and she was certain she hadn’t opened it. As she slowly gained more and more consciousness, she became aware of other strange things. Such as the warmth against her back, the weight of something draped over her abdomen, and the soft puff of air against her neck.

Her eyes snapped open, first taking in the ceiling, then turning to her right to see a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lying on top of the covers beside her. He was fully dressed, complete with Belstaff, and smelled a bit like a bog.

“What the hell…?” she whispered.

“Not quite the reaction I’d hoped for,” he said, startling her, before opening one sea green eye to look at her.

Groaning in exasperation, Molly moved to get up, but remembered at the last second that she was nude beneath the blankets. _Oh, God…_

“Close your eyes,” she grumbled at him, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows. “I’m not dressed, and I refuse to talk to you until I am, so close your eyes and turn your back while I get dressed.”

He rolled his eyes, but obediently closed them, covering them with his hand for good measure. Molly slid out of bed and grabbed the first things she could get her hands on, which turned out to be a pair of skull-pattern knickers and a _Doctor Who_ tee-shirt. She decided to forego a bra and trousers, her curiosity winning over her desire to punish him for showing up unannounced.

“Okay,” she mumbled, sitting on the bed again.

Whatever she’d expected to see in those lovely eyes of his as he removed his hand, it certainly wasn’t the intense remorse and almost _reverence_ in them now. Sherlock sat up, his gaze never straying from her. She felt as if she were under a microscope, and started to fidget with the hem of her tee-shirt.

“I am so sorry, Molly,” he finally said. “I never… it was not my intent to hurt you. Please believe that, if nothing else.”

Molly gnawed on her lip. “Then what _was_ your intent?”

He took a slow breath, releasing it just as slowly. “To save you from yet another psychopath who threatened your life.”

An ice-cold shudder moved down her spine at his words. “ _What?”_

“You’re not actually in danger,” he hurriedly assured her. “I only _thought_ you were, and I had to make you say it to save your life.”

Perhaps she ought to have been upset that the only reason for this emotional upheaval was a perceived threat. Perhaps she should make him miserable, giving him a taste of his own medicine, as it were, not offering her forgiveness until he begged. But she couldn’t do that. She loved him too much, and she knew that, in his own way, Sherlock did care for her. He cared enough to go to desperate lengths to save her, and that, she had to admit, was rather a high compliment.

“I believe you,” she said quietly. “And I forgive you.”

He must have expected the rage she had dismissed, because he sat there gaping, mouth open—buffering, as John called it. “You… just like that?”

Molly frowned at him. “Sorry, did you want me to shout and carry on?”

“No!” he blurted, then scrunched his face up in annoyance at himself. “No, but I thought… I expected…”

With a rush of uncharacteristic boldness, Molly put a hand on his arm. His eyes shot immediately to her hand, but he didn’t flinch, which she decided was a good sign. “Sherlock, I know you. I know what you used to be, and I know who you are now. I know that you would never intentionally hurt the people you care about, and I know that I am one of those people.” She took a breath, steeling herself. “I know you don’t love me the same way I love you, but the way that you love me… it’s enough.”

“No,” he shook his head, and she reared back in surprise. “No, you’re wrong.” He shifted so that his hand held hers. “I’m not… I don’t really… this isn’t my area,” he finally stammered out. “I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for so long, told myself I didn’t want… didn’t _need_ …”

Molly couldn’t remember a time she had seen him so inarticulate. Words came easily to him, powerful words, eloquent words… sometimes hurtful words. But now, he seemed at a loss, and something told her that was important.

When he spoke again, it was almost under his breath. “I’ve been a bloody fool.” His eyes lifted to hers, and his throat worked down a swallow. He was actually _nervous_. “An absolute idiot to have missed what was right in front of me… what has been there since I met you.”

She anxiously licked her lips, her insides twisting in anticipation, and was it her imagination, or was he moving closer? “What has been there?” she prompted breathlessly.

Now he was _definitely_ moving closer, and the hand that wasn’t holding hers reached up and touched her face. When he was near enough that she could feel his breath on her face, he finally replied in a whisper, “ _Sentiment_.”

And then their lips met. Molly’s entire body trembled, and she gripped him for support. His other hand joined the other, cradling her head, tilting her head to allow him to deepen the kiss. She felt as if she might burst with the sensory overload, and clung to him tighter, a silent plea to not let her go. And it seemed he was more than willing to comply. As her fingers buried themselves in his hair, his arms circled her waist, pulling her as close as possible.

When oxygen finally became a necessity, their lips parted, and Molly gazed in wonder at him. The beautiful blue-green iris was merely a thin ring around a wide, black pupil, and as she slid her hand along his neck, she could feel the frantic pulse in his carotid artery beneath her fingers.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, unbidden, and unashamed. “I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, it’ll always be true.”

She grinned at him, touching his forehead with hers. “Always?”

With a tender smile that she would forever think of as _her_ smile, he replied, “Always.”


	25. The Skull on the Mantel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a picture I found on Tumblr, I'll include a link below. It's pure fluff, hope you don't get any cavities from the excessive sweetness.

[(This picture is adorable.)](https://musicprincess1990.tumblr.com/post/629537062721388544/this-is-adorable-also-what-if-molly-has-her-own)

* * *

Sherlock stopped. Stared. Blinked once. Blinked a second time. His eyes shifted to his right, into the kitchen, where Molly was putting water in the kettle. They moved to the little taxidermy mouse on a skateboard. He’d already known about that little item, of course, but this…

_How had he missed it?_

He stepped toward the fireplace, eyes once again glued to the object in question. Leaning in for a closer look, he found traces of dust packed into a few tight crevices, but very little on the surface. She’d had it for a while then, and cleaned it with some regularity. Glancing to his right again, he spotted the kettle on the countertop, while Molly stretched up on her toes to get her favorite blend. He had precious little time before she would turn around and catch him snooping ( _observing_ , he corrected himself). He moved swiftly, yet cautiously, and brushed the tips of his fingers over the cranium. Worn smooth, from however many years’ worth of dusting.

Sherlock took a step back, just in time for Molly to turn and meet his eyes with a smile. “Figure it out yet?”

 _Damn._ “Figure what out?” he tried, in his best attempt at nonchalance.

Molly rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Don’t play the idiot, Sherlock, it really doesn’t suit you,” she playfully scolded, now joining him in the sitting room. “The skull,” she went on. “Did you figure it out?”

“Gift from a former classmate, to celebrate your thirtieth birthday,” he rattled off. “Female, two years older than you, also majored in pathology. Bit of an inside joke, I imagine. You keep it because it makes you laugh.”

“All true,” she nodded, “but that’s not what I meant.” She met his eyes once again, hers dancing with mirth. “Did you figure out how you missed it?”

A muscle in his cheek gave a telling twitch, but he said nothing. Unfortunately, that was answer enough. Her smile grew, but she didn’t taunt him about not knowing something, seeing and not observing, as he might have done to anyone else. That wasn’t Molly’s way. Instead, she briefly squeezed his hand and said, “It’ll come to you,” then went back to the kitchen.

Sherlock followed her with his gaze for a moment, then he turned back to the skull. He didn’t really believe in coincidences, but it was hard to see this as anything else. That they both had a replica of a human skull, resting on the mantel… that she would have placed hers there before ever meeting him, before knowing he had one in the very same spot at home…

 _Home_.

There was something significant in that particular word. It ricocheted around the edges of his brain, just out of reach, until he registered a soft humming from the kitchen. He couldn’t place the tune, but it wasn’t important. The sound itself set off a warmth in the center of his chest, which spread slowly outward, trickling down to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Home,” he breathed out on a sigh.

His eyes sought her out, and found Molly still softly humming, swaying in time with the unfamiliar melody. He moved silently into the kitchen, coming to stand just behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She gave a slight start, but giggled and leaned into his embrace. “Have you got it then?”

Sherlock grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’ve always seen me so clearly, haven’t you?”

“Someone has to,” she countered. “God knows _you_ can’t be trusted to do it. And neither can Mycroft, he’s even thicker than you are!”

He laughed at that, a loud, joyful sound that reverberated against the tile. Tightening his hold on her, he breathed in her ear, “Have I mentioned today how ridiculously in love with you I am?”

Molly tipped her head back, resting it on his shoulder, then turning her face toward his. “Twice,” she beamed. “But I’ll never stop you from saying it again.”

Their lips connected in a gentle, unhurried kiss, parting only when the whistling of the kettle demanded their attention. She reached up for one last peck before stepping away to continue making tea. Sherlock silently watched her, a hint of a smile still playing on his lips. It really was so simple, the “mystery” of the skull. Somehow, over the years, at some indefinable point, he had come to think of this as home, just as much as Baker Street.

No, not the flat… but the woman living in it.

His Molly.

_His home._


	26. Hey, Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope duos prompt from @kietzemaze on Tumblr: #24 (Jealous Sherlock) and #39 (Reflex Affection). Always fun to write Sherlock being a jealous idiot. I couldn’t find a way to fit in the reflex affection until the very end, but still, I’m pleased with the turnout. Thanks again for the prompt, and for all you lovely readers!

Molly tried to listen to the conversation, really she did, but her attention just kept creeping back to the scowling detective across the table. She had stumbled upon Sherlock and John while looking for a place to have dinner with her cousin, Ivan, who was in town for the weekend.

They’d been very close growing up, with less than a year’s age difference between them, and neither of them having any siblings. Though he now lived in Scotland, Ivan always made time for her, whether it was coming to London for a visit, or their weekly phone calls, or if she went to visit him in Edinburgh. And their bond was strengthened further when her father passed, leaving Ivan and his wife and children the only family she had left.

John, always friendly and polite, invited them to join him and Sherlock, who were just on their way to Angelo’s. Sherlock was on a case, but John would be eating there, even if Sherlock did not.

Throughout the exchange, Sherlock remained silent, his eyes trained on Ivan, narrowed in scrutiny. Molly cringed inwardly, hoping he would at least keep from blurting out any unpleasant deductions to Ivan’s face.

Now, here they sat, munching on bread and butter (except Sherlock), half the party oblivious to the other half’s unease. John and Ivan quickly found common ground through medicine, as Ivan was also a doctor. They were currently swapping stories of the strangest patient stories they had encountered. Molly listened and laughed along, but as Sherlock continued to scowl, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but him.

Why on earth was he so upset? And so _quiet?_ She could hardly believe he hadn’t said so much as a word to Ivan, not even a passing deduction. Normally, he would be eager to demonstrate his intelligence by rattling off details of where a person grew up, their family life, their drinking habits… but now? _Nothing_.

“Molly?”

She started, and by the way all eyes were on her, she guessed someone had just asked her a question. “Oh, um… sorry, I didn’t hear…”

“That’s Molly for you,” Ivan teased with a grin. “Always has her head in the clouds, this one!”

Molly opened her mouth to retort, having plenty of fodder to meet her cousin’s teasing and then up the ante. But before she could say a word, Sherlock finally spoke, “Perhaps you don’t know Molly nearly as well as you think you do.”

_What?_

“What?” Ivan echoed her thoughts, laughing openly.

“I’ve known Molly for nearly ten years, and have never once thought she ‘always has her head in the clouds.’ As a matter of fact, she is easily the most intelligent and competent pathologist at St. Bart’s, able to read minute details and extrapolate data with precision and efficiency. She also has the cleanest Y-incision I have ever seen. Would she be able to do all that with her head in the clouds?”

Now all eyes were on Sherlock, stunned by his outburst. Molly’s heart swelled at the remarkable praise he’d given her, and had to physically stop her chest from puffing out a bit. She’d rather expected him to agree with Ivan’s remark. Heaven knows, she had a tendency to fantasize.. especially about _him_.

“Well,” Ivan cleared his throat. “I won’t worry about you making friends in London anymore, Molly. Clearly, you’ve maid an impression.”

Sherlock frowned at this statement, but John cut him off before he could say anything more. “She certainly has. You really are brilliant, Molly. And I’m sure your _cousin_ agrees,” he added, emphasizing the word with a pointed look at Sherlock.

His eyes widened, and he looked sharply at John. “‘Cousin’?”

“Well, yeah, Ivan is Molly’s cousin,” he replied.

“How do _you_ know that?”

“Because she told us, you ponce,” John rolled his eyes. “I knew you weren’t bloody listening.”

Sherlock stared openly at Ivan, blinking a few times, and Molly almost laughed aloud. Glancing at John, she saw him cover his mouth with his fist while his eyes danced. “Ah,” Sherlock finally said, and she could have sworn his ears turned a bit pink. “Right then.”

The chirp of a mobile interrupted the awkward silence, and Ivan glanced at his phone. “Oh, that’s Emily, wants me to call her. Excuse me for a moment. “He stood and walked toward the door, dialing his wife’s number and pressing the phone to his ear as he stepped outside.

“‘Spose now’s a good time to head to the loo,” John said, then pointed a finger at Sherlock like he was scolding a little boy. “Don’t go swanning off without me this time, right?”

“I don’t go _swanning off_ ,” he grumbled, but otherwise offered no argument.

_And then there were two_ , Molly thought wryly. Sherlock seemed intent on looking at anyone and anything but her. She watched as his eyes flicked from the door, to the clock on the far wall, to the untouched glass of water in front of him, and down to his shoes. “So,” he began, still averting his gaze. “Cousin.”

She bit back another laugh. “Yup,” she replied, popping the “P” as he often did.

Nodding his head, he replied absently, “Good, good…”

“Is it?” she asked playfully.

He gave a quick, one-shouldered shrug, still averting his gaze. “I would assume so. I can’t think of any cousins off-hand in my family, so I have no real frame of reference.”

“Well, Ivan and I are a bit closer than most cousins, so…” she trailed off, still smiling.

“Hm,” he nodded again. “I suppose he would know you quite well then.”

“Yeah, he does. But thanks for saying all those lovely things,” she added. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

Finally, his eyes met hers. “I do,” he confirmed. “Why do you think I refuse to work with anyone else?”

“I figured it was because I’m the only one who doesn’t get in a tiff when you start spewing deductions,” she ribbed good-naturedly.

His lips curved up into a little smile that set loose a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. “That too.”

At that moment, Ivan returned to the table. “Sorry about that, Molls. Emily says hello,” he added as he took his seat. “She’s miffed she didn’t get to come with me this time, but what can you do? Bedrest _means_ bedrest!”

“Too right,” Molly nodded with mock soberness.

A minute or so later, John came back as well, and it seemed the awkwardness had dissipated. Sherlock, though visibly less tense than before, still did not join the conversation, opting to pull out his phone and scroll through his emails. Molly almost scolded him, but decided against it. At least he wasn’t scowling anymore.

They were halfway into their entrees when Sherlock’s phone chimed. He jumped to his feet with a loud, “ _Yes!_ ” that startled the entire restaurant into a hush. “It’s Lestrade, the idiot’s running this way, just as I expected! Come on, John!”

John dropped his fork and fished out a few bills to set on the table. “Here, that should cover my portion, I’m sorry!” he said in a rush, then sprinted out the door after Sherlock.

Ivan stared at the bills for a moment, then turned wide-eyed to Molly. “What the hell was that?”

* * *

Later that night, after explaining Sherlock’s work to Ivan and seeing him back to his hotel, Molly got a text from the detective asking her to meet him at Bart’s, “if convenient.” Which, Molly knew, actually meant, “immediately and without question.” She knew better than to protest (he’d just counter them all with his perfectly skewed logic), and despite her exhaustion, dutifully made her way to the hospital.

Sherlock was already in the lab when she arrived, at his favorite microscope, peering through the lens at whatever he was analyzing. Molly sighed. “I wish you’d stop picking the lock,” she said tiredly.

“Time is of the essence,” he replied, still looking through the lens. “A woman’s alibi depends on this analysis.”

“Took me all of ten minutes to get here, Sherlock.”

“And that’s ten minutes less that she’ll have to wait.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but dropped the argument. “Right then. What do you need?”

He stilled for a moment, so briefly she thought she might have imagined it, before changing the slide and analyzing a new one. “John’s with Mary.”

“How dare he choose to be with his wife?” she deadpanned.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Molly.”

“Avoiding the question doesn’t become _you_ , Sherlock.”

He finally looked at her. “I didn’t avoid the question, I answered it. John’s with Mary, and was unwilling to come.”

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” he huffed, “I work better with an assistant.”

Another person might have bristled at his use of the term _assistant_. That person may also have been angry about being practically dragged from their home back to work, which they’d only left a few short hours ago, simply to babysit a grown man. But that person wasn’t Molly. Molly saw the hidden meaning of his words, and she couldn’t help smiling at the ridiculous man.

“You could just _say_ that you don’t want to be alone,” she told him.

He blinked in surprise, then frowned, turning back to his microscope. “Rubbish,” he muttered, and for the second time that night, his ears turned pink.

Satisfied at having guessed correctly, Molly said nothing more, and went about doing some of her own work. If he needed something from her, he would ask, but until he did, she might as well get ahead on her paperwork.

They worked in silence for close to an hour before Molly started yawning. She checked her watch, groaning at the small hand that pointed to the number eleven. Rubbing tired eyes, she asked, “How much longer have you got, Sherlock?”

“Not long,” he said. “Just waiting on that last dirt sample—” a loud beeping noise from the analyzer cut him off, and he darted his gaze to the computer screen. A wide smile broke out across his face. “Oh, _yes!_ ” He shot up from his stool and grabbed his coat. “I _knew_ it was the sister-in-law! If you wouldn’t mind emailing those results, Molly, I’ll need to phone Lestrade right away.”

Molly was used to this, Sherlock firing off instructions and leaving in a whirlwind. Truth be told, it was a bit of a rush for her as well, seeing the spark in his eyes as a case came together. However, this time, he did something very unexpected and out of character. As he swung his coat around and pushed his arms through the sleeves, he crossed over to her, standing only inches away. Then, quick as lightning, his hands cupped her face, and he pressed a firm, searing kiss to her lips.

When he pulled back with a loud _smack_ , Molly stood frozen, eyes shut, listening as he swept from the room, calling over his shoulder, “Remember to send those results, please!” Eventually, her eyes opened, staring dumbly at the spot he’d just vacated. She lifted a trembling hand to her lips, which had been claimed by his only moments ago.

“What… the hell…?”


	27. Making a Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a fun little ship questionnaire I was tagged in by @mychakk on Tumblr. Of the 10 questions, I think 8 of them turned into mini-fics, and I decided to flesh each of them out into one-shots. Hope you like the result!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee-shop AU, also Uni!lock.

Molly gave a cheerful smile to the customer as she handed over the cappuccino she’d ordered. The woman thanked her and left the café, and thus ended the morning rush. With a sigh, Molly turned to the homework she’d brought with her. Working a café was the perfect fit for her. Each morning started at five o’clock, she arrived at work by six, opening the café to a steady stream of customers. By half-nine it tapered off into a lull, leaving an hour and a half of her shift to work on her assignments, and three hours before her classes (with the exception of chem lab, but she had Thursdays off for that reason).

“I’m going to take my break,” her co-worker, Anna, announced. “Back in ten.”

She nodded in response, her eyes staying glued to the page. Her eyes roved over the pages of her textbook, and smiled to herself when she found the answer. Just as she finished scratching it down, the bell over the door rang.

Molly glanced up, and her stomach gave a little jolt. _God, he’s gorgeous_ , she thought, watching the young man as he sauntered up to her. He was tall, slim, and the cut of his jaw was surpassed only by his cheekbones. His long coat billowed with each purposeful step, revealing a well-made, if a bit rumpled, coat and trousers. He somehow looked both posh and scrappy at the same time. And as he came closer, she realized why.

Bloodshot eyes. Dark circles beneath them. Sallow skin. And on closer inspection, he seemed almost _too_ slim. Either he was going through an exceptionally bad breakup, and wasn’t handling it well, or he was an addict. Molly couldn’t honestly say which one she hoped was true.

Still, she put on her usual smile and greeted him. “Good morning!”

He didn’t even look at her as he reached the counter. “Coffee,” he grumbled in a deep voice. “Black, two sugars.”

Molly was used to people being a bit short with her when they ordered their coffee. Most of them were still waking up, in need of that caffeine high to start their day. But as she poured his coffee, she watched him pull a tenner out of his pocket with shaking hands, fingers stained yellow from too many cigarettes. _Addict_ , she concluded. She chanced another look at his face, and could feel tears prickling against her eyes. He looked sad. No, that wasn’t quite right. He looked… _lost_.

He hadn’t noticed her staring, wasn’t paying her any attention at all. Molly deliberated for only a few moments, then grabbed the black marker beside the other register. She scribbled a quick note for him, heart thundering in her chest as she did. Then she slipped a cardboard sleeve over the cup, effectively covering most of the note, but leaving enough of it visible that he would read it. Later. Long after he’d left the shop.

Molly handed the coffee and the sugar packets to him, and took the tenner back over to the register. She made quick work of his change, and handed it off to him with another smile. “Come again,” she said sincerely.

He didn’t so much as nod in reply. He stuffed the change into his pocket and swept out of the café without a backward glance. Molly chewed on her bottom lip, and though she wasn’t particularly religious, sent a quick prayer heavenward for him. Then she turned back to her homework, trying to push all thoughts of the strange, lost man out of her mind.

* * *

The following day, Saturday, the café took on a much more leisurely pace. Those who worked the typical Monday thru Friday nine-to-five were happily sleeping in, leaving the early hours rather quiet in comparison. Molly and Anna were chatting about their classes, each being students at King’s College, when the first customer of the day came barging in, nearly breaking the door off its hinges. Both girls started in surprise, and Molly’s stomach flipped over. _It’s him!_

He looked as pale and exhausted as he had the day before, but now his eyes blazed with unmistakable fury. He looked first at Anna, then at Molly, and his scowl deepened. Molly actually took a step back as he crossed the café in three long strides. Anna, great friend that she was, had quietly slipped into the break room and closed the door behind her. “What the hell is _this?_ ” he demanded through clenched teeth. In his hand, he showed the cup she’d given him yesterday, bearing her impulsive note.

_Life is too short to waste. You could do something brilliant with yours. Give yourself a chance._

Molly swallowed hard. “I-I just…”

“Why did you write this?” he spat. “ _Why?_ ”

And then she saw it, just for a moment. A touch of desperation, the faintest hint of panic. He was so lost, so out of his own control, that he had no idea just how far he’d fallen. A wave of calm settled over her, and she straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. “I think you know why,” she replied, “or you wouldn’t be here. And I meant what I said. You _could_ be brilliant.”

He crushed the cup in his hand, and he threw it against the wall behind her. She jumped a bit, but kept her eyes on him. “I _am_ brilliant,” he growled. “Certainly more so than a second-year pre-med student with two cats, a dead father, a disappointing figure, and a tendency to muck up relationships with her terrible sense of humor.” He narrowed his eyes. “I am, and will always be, more intelligent than such an ordinary, pathetic _girl!_ ”

Molly bit back a sob as tears escaped. How could someone be so cruel? If she were braver, she might have slapped him, or shouted at him. But she wasn’t brave, and even worse… he was right about all of it. _How had he known?_ She was absolutely certain she’d never seen him before yesterday, and she really didn’t have many friends, no close friends at all. No one that would have known about her father. Somehow, he’d figured that out on his own… and she couldn’t help but admire that. But still, he had been so cruel to her, when all she’d done was try to give him some encouragement. Well, that was an addict for you, unwilling to admit there is a problem until was almost too late. In his case, he wouldn’t know until his “brilliance” started to fade…

Suddenly, she knew just what to say to him. Molly wiped away her tears, mustering up what little remaining courage she had, and left her last parting blow. “You’re right,” she said evenly. “You _are_ brilliant.” She took a step closer, the counter still leaving space between them, but bringing her near enough to get his attention. His brows furrowed as his eyes scanned her, his unease written clearly across his features. _Good_. After a moment’s pause, she finally said, “But think how much _more_ brilliant you’d be if you stopped clouding your brain.”

His mouth popped open, and that lost look in his eyes resurfaced… and magnified. He worked his mouth, searching for some clever retort no doubt, but snapped it shut a moment later. A muscle in his face twitched, then he turned around so fast it made her blink in surprise, and he half-ran out of the café. Molly sagged against the counter, the tension of their confrontation melting away.

Anna finally showed her face, coming out of the back room with wide eyes. “What was _that?_ ”

* * *

Molly looked for him every day, eyes darting up with every ring of the bell. She told herself it was because she wanted to be ready if he came for another confrontation. But really, she was just anxious for him. It was complete madness, worrying over a perfect stranger, but she couldn’t help it. Something about him stayed with her, whether it was that lost look or his magnificent cheekbones, she couldn’t say. But with every customer that wasn’t him, she felt a small stab of disappointment.

She had almost given up hope of seeing him by the end of term. Christmas was fast approaching, and with the chill in the air, the café was busier than ever. Even so, the late-morning lull came around at its usual time. Anna had finished her degree, leaving her the sole barista. The owner, Sophie, came and helped during the rush hours, but otherwise spent her time in her office doing… whatever she did. Which gave Molly a bit of freedom to find her own ways to fill her time. She wiped down tables, straightened chairs, mopped up a spill or two, and then, with no homework and no further tasks, she took her copy of _Persuasion_ out of her handbag, opening up to where she’d left off.

A few chapters later, just as she was coming up to the fateful trip to Lyme, the door opened. Molly glanced up, and the book slipped from her hands, clattering to the floor.

There he stood, looking much the same as he had before. But there were a few differences, and she smiled at each one. Gone were the dark circles and the cigarette stains, and his skin now bore a healthy glow, though he was still quite pale. And his eyes—a vibrant blue-green, she now realized—were bright and clear and focused entirely on her. A blush stole across her cheeks as he slowly approached. “Black, two sugars, please,” he said in a low voice.

Molly couldn’t have stopped the smile on her face even if she’d wanted to. She’d made a difference, with her note and her words to him. And he was grateful, even if he wouldn’t come right out and say it (which he probably wouldn’t). But that was alright. She knew. Between his use of the word “please,” and the gratitude shining through his eyes, she knew.

She poured his coffee and, unable to resist, scribbled another note on his cup, this one much shorter than the last: _Told you!_ , with a little smiley face for good measure. As she handed him the cup, he saw it, and he gave her a smile—the smallest smile she had ever seen, but a smile nonetheless! “Thank you, Molly,” he said with a deep sincerity that certainly wasn’t meant for the coffee.

“My pleasure,” she answered quietly, then went to give him his change.

He shook his head. “Keep it. Along with this,” he added, pulling a card out of his pocket and placing it on top of the money in her outstretched hand. His eyes met hers for another moment, then he turned on his heel and left with a swish of his coat. Molly watched him walk away for a bit, then looked down at the card in her hand. It looked like a business card, the words printed in simple, yet sophisticated lettering:

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective  
221B Baker Street  
Marylebone, London_

Molly’s face twitched from the effort of suppressing her smile. It only grew when she flipped the card over and read the hand-written note on the other side:

_Come to Baker Street after work, if convenient.  
If inconvenient, come anyway._

_-SH_


	28. Alone No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope duos prompt from @rabbit-in-blue on Tumblr: #1 (Arranged Marriage) and #11 (Drunk!lock). Very late answer to a great prompt. This was SO much fun to write! Thanks for reading!

Molly awoke to the sound of a nearby _thud_ and frowned into the darkness. _Damned cat_ , she thought grumpily to herself, thinking Toby had gotten himself into some mischief or other. However, in the same moment that she realized Toby was, in fact, curled up against her leg, she heard another _thud_ , followed by a colorful string of words spoken in a deep, very recognizable voice.

With a sigh, Molly slid from the warmth and comfort of her bed, pulling a thick tartan dressing gown on over her nightdress, before emerging into the sitting room and lighting the nearest lamp. Indeed, there was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, proper genius, and _her husband_ , sprawled out on the floor like a sea star. Before she could verbalize her annoyance (or quiet amusement), she noticed a slow stream of blood making its way along his temple, beginning at his eyebrow. In addition, his eyes were shut, and he almost looked as though he might be unconscious. Molly sighed again, quickly turning back to retrieve a bowl of water, and the bandages she knew he kept in one of the kitchen cabinets for this very purpose.

As she knelt beside him, his eyes opened and shot to her so abruptly she gave a small start. He stared at her, his expression one of utter bewilderment. “You are bleeding,” she supplied an explanation, though he had not asked for one.

“That explains the headache,” he drawled.

She nearly smiled at him, the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought it. She could not explain it, but somehow, she felt if she laughed now, at this moment, it would suggest she approved of the situation—which she most certainly did _not_. Particularly now that she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“It will be worse in the morning,” she pointed out sharply. “I didn’t think you liked to drink.”

Mr. Holmes scowled up at her. “I am not drunk. I had one—no, two—maybe three...” he trailed off, his brow crinkling as he tried to remember.

Molly raised an eyebrow. “If it is that difficult to recall, I’d wager you’ve had more than enough.” He rolled his eyes, then winced and hissed at the pain caused by the action. Part of her took a bit of petty satisfaction at this, knowing he had brought it upon himself, but she quickly silenced that part of herself. Deserved or not, he was injured and in pain, and he needed her help. Molly doused a bit of cloth in the water, wrung out the excess, and dabbed at the wound. He hissed again, but remained still. When the silence between them became strained, she asked, “How exactly did _this_ happen?”

“Watson,” he muttered, and his eyes slid shut.

She frowned at him. “Watson… you mean your _friend_ , Dr. Watson?”

He scoffed, and Molly grimaced at the more concentrated scent that wafted up to her nose. “I don’t have _friends_ ,” he slurred. “I have enemies and colleagues, and that is all it will ever be.” He laughed suddenly, but there was no humor in his voice. “According to Watson, I push everyone away, including my own _wife!_ ”

Molly stilled, a quiet gasp falling from her lips. She watched his face carefully, waiting for it to dawn on him that he was speaking of the very woman who was at this moment tending to his wound. When he gave no such indication, she returned to the task at hand, hoping to ignore the subject.

“He doesn’t understand,” her husband spoke again, his voice pitched low and rumbling. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

She paid no mind to the single tear that escaped from the corner of her eye and focused on applying the bandage. Molly had been under no illusions upon entering her marriage. Sherlock Holmes made his position on love abundantly clear from the moment they first met. The only reason they were married at all was because of their mothers. She knew not what threats Mrs. Holmes had imposed upon him, but they must have been dire indeed for him to have agreed to the union.

For Molly’s part, she had been aware of her family’s dwindling finances since her father died, leaving his widow and seventeen-year-old daughter with barely enough to survive. They had sold their home, and everything in it, save a recent portrait of the family of three, and a single suitcase full of her father’s favorite books. With that money, they bought a small, seaside cottage in Sussex, near Brighton, large enough only for the two of them. Molly and her mother learned to cook, clean, sew, light fires, and tend their small garden. She had also learned how to manage their finances, ensuring that they had enough to get by. And she learned they did not have sufficient funds to support themselves for long. Even with careful scrimping and saving, they would run out within a few short years.

The solution, her mother had told her, was clear: she would have to marry into money. Fortunately (or not so fortunate, depending on one’s viewpoint), Mrs. Hooper still maintained a steady friendship with one Violet Holmes, who was eager to see her younger son married and settled. His inheritance was certainly less than what his elder brother, Mycroft, would receive, but the wealth of the Holmes family was quite substantial, and her marriage to the younger son would secure her well-being, and her mother’s, for many years to come. In any case, the elder Mr. Holmes had married the previous year, and was therefore not an option. Thus, she was promised, and duly married, to Sherlock Holmes.

Had she known what it would be like… had she suspected she would fall in love with the man…

 _No_ , she shook her head. That knowledge would not have swayed her decision. To refuse would be unforgivably selfish, as it was not merely her own situation under threat. Though her unrequited feelings weighed on her heart, she could never have done such a thing to her mother. A heavy heart was a struggle, but one she could bear. _Would_ bear. No matter how infuriating her husband could be.

As if he knew her thoughts had strayed to him, Mr. Holmes opened his eyes again, his gaze landing upon her face. Something in those eyes made her pause, her fingers still resting against his forehead, and found herself quite unable to move. The air grew thick with mounting tension, and Molly knew… something was about to change.

“Why do you stay?” he breathed.

Molly blinked, frowning in confusion. “Your wound needs tending”

“No,” he shook his head. Slowly, he shifted into an upright position, his eyes never straying from hers for a moment. Her throat grew dry as he leaned forward, inspecting her as though she were the most fascinating, bewildering puzzle. “Why do you stay with me?”

Her heart thundered in her chest, and she drew a trembling breath through her lips. “You are my husband.”

“Mycroft sees his wife twice each year—on Christmas Day, and on our mother’s birthday—and the remainder of the year, they live in separate homes, corresponding through the occasional letter. Husband and wife are under no true obligations to one another, except those the law dictates.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Why. Do. You. _Stay?_ ”

His meaning became clear to her then; he did not want her. He wished for her to leave. Another tear made its presence known, and she turned her head to hide its descent. “If that is the sort of marriage you wish for,” she breathed, heart crumbling even as she spoke, “I will make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

Molly moved away from him, unable to stomach the inevitable look of relief that would undoubtedly be written across his handsome face. She was stopped, however, by a large, warm hand lightly encircling her wrist. She looked down at it, then swallowed as she turned her eyes to the owner of the hand, and was astonished to find not relief, but fear. Wild and furious panic blazed in his ice-colored eyes, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“Mr. Holmes—” she began, but she was unable to finish her sentence as his free hand reached out, and the pads of his fingers lightly traced the contours of her face. Molly drew a trembling breath, stunned by the contact.

He had not touched her since their wedding day, and one could hardly consider the quick, perfunctory pressing of his lips to hers as a real kiss. At the time, she had thought nothing of it, having no more desire for his touch than he had desire to give it. Her love for him had built slowly, so gradually that she could not determine a precise beginning. Indeed, she had no notion of the change of her feelings, until the truth of them washed over her like the waves of the sea—sudden, bracing, overpowering. And despite his indifference toward her, it only served to grow over time.

And now, almost a year later, he was touching her, and she had to fight to keep her wits about her.

“Can it be…?” he whispered, leaning closer still. “Is it possible, after all this time, all that you have endured, that you might… _choose_ to be here?”

Molly heard the true question hidden behind his words, and her breath caught. She searched his eyes, still wide and panicked, looking for any sign of indifference in him, and found none whatsoever. He was afraid, yes, but in those crystalline eyes, fear mingled with desperate hope, the same hope she now felt bubbling up inside of her.

It was neither a declaration, nor a grand romantic gesture, but such things were not in his nature. This, however, the look in his eyes, the warmth of his touch… was more than enough.

“Yes,” she answered him finally, baring her heart to him with a single word, and praying he would not trample it with his usual cutting words.

Mercifully, he seemed to have no intention of doing so. The hopeful embers dancing in his gaze were fanned into a blaze, and in a move as fast as lightning, his hand cradled the back of her head and guided her lips to his. The fire transferred into her through the contact, warming every inch of her, burning ever hotter with his continued touch. Her hands moved of their own accord to his chest, relishing the feel of his racing heart beneath the tips of her fingers. _Not so indifferent_ , she thought with a smile.

Sherlock felt her smile and drew his head back to look at her. “Something amusing?”

Feeling emboldened, Molly inched closer, settling herself into his lap. Her hands slid up around his neck and into the soft curls at the back of his head. He sucked in a breath, eyes darkening with unmistakable lust. She stopped just shy of kissing him, her lips hovering teasingly over his. “I believe,” she murmured, “you _like_ me, Mr. Holmes.”

His answering grin was decidedly wolfish as he wrapped his arms around her. “An excellent deduction, Mrs. Holmes,” he replied, and moved to kiss her again, grunting in frustration when she leaned away

“Even though ‘alone is what you have’?” she quoted with a wry smile. “‘Alone protects you’?”

“Oh, sod what I said,” he grumbled, yanking her back towards him until her chest was flush against his, and the wall that had stood between them crumbled into dust and rubble. “I’ve pushed you away long enough. No more.”

Molly was moved to tears once again, though these were a much happier sort. “Thank God,” she breathed, and his mouth captured hers once again. He tasted of brandy and cigars and _Sherlock_ , and she had never tasted anything so mouth-wateringly delicious. His hands roamed her back, her sides, her neck, while hers buried themselves in his hair. When she experimentally curled her fingers and lightly scraped his scalp with her nails, he groaned his approval into her mouth. Then, in one astonishingly deft movement, he was on his feet, sweeping her up into his arms.

“I hope you don’t mind, Molly,” he said in a low growl, “but I’d very much like to take you to bed.”

Giggling softly, she pressed a fervent kiss to his lips. “Get on with it, then.”


End file.
